Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  ‘I have formulated our plan to steal Tamara Huntingdon.’

  The words shattered through Tom’s daydreams with such force that he felt himself immediately turn bright red. Sally’s sharp eyes spotted this instantly and she looked away: embarrassment clambering on yet more embarrassment. Walter didn’t appear to notice any of this and carried on:

  ‘She will be attending the opera on Tuesday. On exiting the theatre the street will be overwhelmed by a crowd. She will become detached from her companions and they will spot a similarly dressed woman being swept away in the opposite direction.’

  ‘And that woman is?’

  ‘One of Madame Pansy’s associates.’

  ‘I see. And what of Miss Huntingdon?’

  ‘I wondered whether Sally could perhaps arrange something for her for one night?’

  Sally looked perplexed. ‘But who is this lady?’

  ‘A young woman who needs shelter…,’ stumbled Tom. He couldn’t even look her in the eye now. ‘Someone who came to our shows… she is engaged to marry Mr Hearst…he’s deplorable…,’

  Sally looked straight back at him with her wide, honest eyes. She knew the truth immediately; of course she did. She could see right through him and back at herself again.

  ‘It sounds like serious business,’ she said carefully.

  ‘It’s not an easy one,’ said Walter. ‘But one night is all we need and then we’ll take her to Paris.’

  ‘Paris!’

  They all turned to him in amazement. ‘Yes, I was going to tell you. We’ve been booked up for a month of shows.’

  He blinked at their stunned faces, as still as the statues encircling them. This sudden hush had the unexpected effect of stirring Ma out of her sunny reverie. She began to hum softly, a rather pleasant tune that no one felt inclined to interrupt. At last her eye fell on Walter.

  ‘Oh, hello dear,’ she said. ‘Has your mother visited you lately?’

  *

  Sally went to chapel that evening. She didn’t ask Tom to join her. Instead she helped him put Ma to bed, kissed her forehead and left alone. He lay down next to his mother for a while and stared at the ceiling. Their small home felt empty without Sally there, even emptier because he knew she’d been bruised. And how could he possibly go to Paris for a month? The plan was ridiculous, outrageous. It was also incalculably divine. He thought of those eyes, almond-shaped and full of green and brown splinters. They could discover Paris together; make an entirely new life for themselves, free from all the burdens of their past. Burdens…,

  Ma had fallen into a deep sleep; the fresh air had done it. She wouldn’t wake for many hours. He grabbed his coat and set off into the winding streets he knew so well. There was a better world somewhere out there. He’d lived in poverty for most of his life; teetering on the edge of decency, hungry more times than he could remember. A mangy dog darted across his path and then a voice called out from somewhere above:

  ‘Evening Tom, how’s your Ma?’

  He turned to a familiar face in an upstairs window. ‘Middling I’d say. Just middling.’

  He avoided the worst streets, where there was barely a flicker of light, and kept his eyes down. The smell of soup and ale and some other indefinable stench filled his nostrils. It had been a warm day but the evening had turned chilly. Ahead of him he saw tall masts tower above the chimneys of the ramshackle houses. Some streets were so narrow that washing-lines criss-crossed between the upstairs windows. He’d even seen young children passed from one window to another. It all felt so flimsy, like a pack of cards that could come crashing down at any moment. And of course there were always threats that this might happen. Whole quarters had already been knocked down, turned into docks, or ‘cleaned up’ as the men in smart suits liked to put it.

  But the poor kept on coming back, living on top of each other, closer and closer. And when they died, even more of them took their places. Tom had seen more child-sized coffins in his life than he could even count. This… this was his home; the home that could have defeated him so many times. It was baffling just to contemplate how he and Walter had managed to survive it.

  He knew exactly where to find his friend. The yellow door swung open for him and the sweet smoky air seemed to gush instantly up his nostrils.

  ‘Come, join us dear Tom!’ cried Cornelius. ‘I hear we’re off to Paris.’

  They were in the same room as before with two or three other bodies collapsed around them on divans. Walter was drifting in and out of sleep.

  ‘Will the Missus Cornelius survive without you?’

  ‘Oh, she’ll do far better without me I’m sure. I only get under her feet.’

  Tom slumped down between them.

  ‘You look unhappy my friend,’ said Cornelius.

  Tom shrugged. ‘Women.’

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘Not really, one of them’s my mother.’

  ‘Oh, they’re the worst of the lot. Well, you can forget about it all in Paris, we’ll have ourselves a ball. Here, have a smoke.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether I can go to Paris. I have… obligations.’

  The sound of jostling suddenly erupted in the corridor. Cornelius jolted Walter out of sleep. There were voices, raised and arguing, the sound of a back being shoved against a wall.

  ‘I tell you, he not here!’

  ‘Don’t lie, idiot. Now move out of the way.’

  At that moment the man who Tom presumed to be the owner of the establishment was hurled into view, followed by the now familiar figure of Palmer. He sauntered into the room, uncomfortably close. His hand swung past Tom’s nose, the signet ring ever present on his smallest finger. It came so close that he could see there was an image of a fox engraved into the gold.

  ‘They’re here!’ Palmer bellowed.

  Cecil Hearst, closely followed by his brother, appeared in the doorway.

  ‘We were told we’d find you here,’ said Hearst with a thin smile. ‘You see you’re famous now Mr Balanchine, everyone knows your haunts. Glad I got you when I still could.’

  The owner picked himself up in the hallway and looked worriedly at Walter, who nodded at him and said, ‘Come in Mr Hearst, please sit down.’

  ‘My brother will; he cannot remain upright for long. Here boy, sit down,’ Hearst commanded, pointing at the place next to Cornelius. He then glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the filthy walls and floor and on the inebriated bodies lying around. His face creased with obvious disgust. ‘But I will remain standing. This place is nothing short of a dung heap gentlemen, surely you can afford better now?’

  ‘This is home to us. We were raised in a dung heap,’ Walter answered.

  ‘Speak for yourselves,’ replied Cornelius, haughtily. ‘I was raised in a shit hole.’

  Hearst looked perplexed for a moment and then broke into a raucous laugh. He ran his hand over the top of his head. ‘Yes, very funny, very funny.’

  ‘May I ask the reason for your visit?’ said Walter.

  Hearst smiled thinly again. He was a slender, elegant man. From where Tom was sitting he could see both sides of Palmer bulging out from behind him.

  ‘Yes, of course. It is the boy here,’ he answered, indicating his brother who now sat hunched with his head hanging low. ‘He was rather taken by your show. Begged me to let him see you again. And so I thought I’d take him on a little adventure. The boy likes adventures, don’t you?’

  The question was so loaded with accusation that it seemed to push his brother’s head down even lower. Tom looked at Hearst’s brother; his face was almost entirely hidden from view by his hanging head. It was hard to imagine him begging anything off anyone.

  ‘Only the other week, our boy here decided to go on a little trip,’ continued Hearst in an exaggerated whisper that a parent might use in the earshot of a naughty child. ‘Found him hobbling half way down the road, didn’t we Palmer?’

  ‘I
ndeed,’ purred the voice behind.

  ‘Now, how am I to convince this boy of ours that he can’t simply take off on his own like that? That the city is full of dangers, disease, foul people who might prey on his good nature?’

  At this, Hearst made a long, purposeful glance around the room.

  ‘Again Mr Hearst, may I ask the reason for your visit?’ said Walter in a low tone.

  ‘Hypnosis,’ replied Hearst, meeting Walter directly in the eye. ‘You’re rather good at it, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you want me to use it on your brother?’

  ‘Only to keep him out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Cecil’s jaw twitched. He ran his hand over his scalp. ‘You’re denying me?’

  ‘I do not use my skills to subjugate people,’ replied Walter.

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Cecil, but his eyes were like steel. ‘Then perhaps we should leave the boy in the streets here Palmer, give him a taste of the freedom he desires. Let him find his own way back to his warm, clean home.’

  A soft, pained groan emanated from the hanging head.

  Walter eyed the pathetic creature before him. ‘What’s wrong with your brother, Mr Hearst?’

  Hearst leaned down and ran his fingers through the bottles on Walter’s chain, lingering for a moment longer on the locket that hung between them. Walter flinched. Not visibly: on the surface he was completely calm. But Tom could tell just from the raw look of intensity in his friend’s face that he was snarling with outrage inside.

  ‘What is it that you do with all these little bottles of yours?’ replied Hearst, in a soft, inquisitive voice. ‘Are you some sort of doctor, as well as a miraculous magician?’

  ‘No. I have learnt things abroad, however. I can be of some aid to those in distress,’ Walter replied, his voice as wide and flat as a great plain.

  ‘I see. Well, prove it then. Show him your hands, boy. Go on, show him.’

  The brother carefully removed his gloves and held his hands up to Walter. They were cracked and blistered. Areas of the skin looked painfully raw and were scratched into gaping welts.

  ‘What do you say to that?’ said Hearst. ‘Have you a potion that can mend this monstrosity?’

  Walter examined the skin carefully. ‘I doubt it,’ he replied.

  ‘Ahah! Then you’re no better than any other doctor in London,’ cried Hearst. His eyes glimmered as if this vindication were far more pleasing to him than any actual cure might be.

  ‘I can help ease the discomfort,’ Walter continued. ‘But I cannot mend the cause.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Some sort of emotional unease I would say.’

  Hearst ran his hand over his skull again. It was an odd habit; as if he were looking for a hat that didn’t exist. ‘And how did you become so insightful?’ he asked Walter.

  ‘I do nothing more than watch.’

  ‘Watch? Does that make you special?’ he laughed. ‘We can all do that. I watch everything that touches me. I watch him,’ he nodded towards his brother. ‘He can’t live without me. I watch the girl I’m about to marry. I watch my money, I watch my land. Everything is within my control.’

  ‘In which case I think you’d better watch out to your left,’ interjected Cornelius. ‘Because you’re in for a shower.’

  At that moment one of the prostrate figures groaned loudly, heaved himself up and vomited violently on the floor. Hearst darted away, but not quickly enough to escape some of the brown bile that cloyed unforgivingly to the ends of his trousers.

  Hearst’s face turned pale; startlingly so. His hands began to shake and he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he then used to cover most of his face. Palmer moved forward, grasping him by the elbow, half carrying him to the door. Behind his handkerchief Hearst made a series of strangulated gulping sounds. They watched the two men leave, Hearst as limp as a rag-doll in Palmer’s clutches.

  ‘Dear me,’ murmured Cornelius, his eyebrows raised so high that they infringed on his balding pate.

  Hearst’s brother cleared his throat as if he wanted to speak. Tom had forgotten he was still there; perhaps Hearst had too.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I think…I think you should help me leave,’ he said in a clear, quiet voice.

  They all peered at him. Again he was dressed in clothes that were far too big for him and more befitting to an old man.

  ‘Are you really ill?’ asked Walter, leaning forwards.

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘What is wrong with you?’

  ‘All manner of things. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Cecil knows it all.’

  ‘Has your brother always looked after you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very good of him to care for me.’

  ‘Is that what everyone says?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And is that what you think?’

  He paused, opened his mouth to say something and then appeared to change his mind.

  ‘May I ask, what is your real name?’ continued Walter. ‘We can’t possibly call you “boy”.’

  For the first time the man lifted his head up properly to face them. He had a gentle broad face, with nothing of his brother’s hawk-like features. But there were deep purple rings beneath his eyes and he was thin, painfully thin. His chin quivered as if he really were a boy.

  ‘My name is Daniel.’

  Walter’s shoulders softened. For a moment he hung his own head down, deep in thought. He removed one of the bottles from around his neck and handed it to him.

  ‘Here is a soft balm to ease the pain in your hands. But none of your ailments will truly heal until you learn that you are not a boy. You are a grown man. If you ever need me, you can send for me.’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘We leave for Somerset soon, for the wedding. Our home is there and Cecil thinks we should all leave London for now. The air is better there he says.’

  ‘Does he now? Well, I have been to the other side of the world and back. I doubt whether a visit to Somerset will kill me.’

  ‘No, but it might kill me,’ whispered Daniel, and then he bit his lip as if he’d said something very, very bad.

  ‘Time to go now,’ boomed a voice. Palmer swept back into the room, rallying Daniel out of his chair with a heavy hand.

  ‘I trust that Mr Hearst is feeling better,’ said Tom.

  ‘He’s perfectly well now. Mr Hearst’s lungs aren’t quite suited to places such as these,’ sneered Palmer.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Cornelius. ‘Do send him our best regards.’

  As Palmer bundled him out of the room, Daniel glanced back at them all and, for the first time, he smiled.

  Chapter 11

  Tom’s disguise was so good that he was even beginning to fool himself. He peered at the bearded, bespectacled man in the mirror and for a brief second wondered why he was staring back at him so fixedly. He clutched at the sticky glass of ale. Outside it had turned to mizzle: rain so fine that it filled the air with an indecisive mist that sat on your clothes and edged unsuspectingly through your hair. The inn was half empty. No one seemed to notice the man with the beard in the corner, or at least Tom hoped they didn’t.

  Only a short distance away, Tamara Huntingdon was at the opera with her mother and the man she was supposed to marry. Upstairs, in a quiet room above the inn, Madame Pansy’s girl was being adorned with a chestnut wig and a blue cloak similar to the one Tamara had been wearing on her arrival. Tom breathed deeply through the fake nose they had plastered to his face. It was like trying to breathe through soup. Ten minutes more and it would be time.

  Hearst’s strange behaviour had shaken them all. Visions of that thin smile, of that hand working its way smoothly across his head, had even begun to appear in Tom’s dreams. Hearst seemed to control those around him with an iron grip, and yet he was also squeamish, girlish even, in a way that made Tom shudder with a creeping sense of revulsion.

  ‘He’s a monster,�
� Walter murmured, after Hearst had left that night.

  ‘A monster who can’t stand the sight of a bit of vomit,’ added Cornelius.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He has money. He has people he can hide behind. We can’t let him marry that girl.’

  And yet the repulsive image of her marrying him refused to leave Tom’s mind: Tamara standing at the altar, saying her vows with white lips. Tamara, being brought back to her new home, climbing into bed with him, gripping at the sheets, crying into her fist…,

  He waited beneath a lamppost, a little way from the entrance to the theatre. The audience began to spill out; the sound of their chattering filling the air. Coach wheels rattled forwards, traders flocked towards them. And then an old, stooped tramp tried to plough his way through the crowd. He was swathed in a vast brown cloak that made him look like a monk from the Dark Ages. Clearly he stank; people covered their noses as he approached them, turning their faces away in disgust.

  Finally Tamara appeared, with her mother just a step behind her. Her eyes actually crossed Tom’s face as she lifted her hood against the dank air. But she didn’t recognise him. Excellent. Hearst then appeared with an umbrella. The three of them moved into the crowd and Tom stepped in after them. Soon there were just two bodies between him and Tamara.