Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  For the first time he spotted Madame Pansy’s girl, approaching from the other side. She was the same sort of build and height as Tamara and they had found her an impressively similar cloak. She had yet to raise her hood, it wasn’t time yet, but when she did it would be hard to tell them apart from behind. The girl looked pale and nervous and Tom felt his own blood begin to pound in his ears.

  The old tramp squeezed on through ahead, arms flailing about. He appeared to be drunk; his great cloak was getting in the way, tripping people up.

  ‘Watch out! Watch out!’ he slurred.

  People cupped their noises with hands and handkerchiefs; even Tom could smell him now.

  ‘Get this vagrant out of here!’ yelled an old gentleman, to no one in particular.

  The tramp turned and glowered at him. There was spittle on his beard. ‘Are you talking about me, sir?’ he exclaimed.

  He lurched towards the man and there was a cry of panic, but at the same time something held him back so that for a few moments he was rather comically running on the spot. When he realised that someone must be standing on his cloak, he attempted to pull it clear with a mighty tug, which only unbalanced him and sent him flying into the crowd. The person he landed on was Tamara’s mother.

  There were muffled screams as the tramp and his cloak smothered her on the ground.

  ‘Get off this woman!’ yelled Hearst. He kicked violently at the tramp so that the man groaned in pain. In the distance Tom could see Palmer elbowing his way towards them through the crowd. Tom pushed forwards to Tamara’s side and leaned into her ear.

  ‘Don’t be startled. It’s me, Tom,’ he whispered. She turned her face slowly towards him, her features lighting up in recognition.

  Ahead of them the tramp was still on the floor and Hearst was now attacking him with his umbrella.

  ‘Come with me,’ he murmured, leading her away. ‘Lower your hood and put on this bonnet.’

  As she followed his instructions he spotted Madame Pansy’s girl raising her own hood, and turning slowly and noticeably in the opposite direction. He took Tamara’s hand in his.

  ‘Tamara, come back here now!’ came the sound of her mother’s harassed voice.

  Tamara’s hand clenched his tightly.

  ‘Don’t worry; she thinks you’re someone else. Don’t turn around.’

  There was the sound of feet moving fast, but almost certainly in the opposite direction. Warm relief flooded through him. They kept on, diving down an alley towards the Strand. But then the distant echo of a woman’s horrified cry met their ears.

  ‘Mama!’ exclaimed Tamara. She glanced at him, her face knotted with fear.

  The mizzle was rapidly turning into rain; Tom could feel it beginning to stream down his face.

  ‘We must move faster,’ he urged. ‘Don’t be afraid, we have a carriage waiting.’

  But when they arrived at the planned spot on the Strand, Cornelius wasn’t there. No one was there apart from policemen, clearing a retreating crowd to the right where a carriage and a wagon had seemingly collided in the middle of the road. A dead horse lay in the centre of it, in the midst of an explosion of flour that seeped into white sludge in the puddles.

  ‘This way,’ said Tom, drawing her to the left. ‘We’ll have to walk for now and then hail a cab further along if we can.’

  They were almost running now, past the dark windows of the eerily empty thoroughfare. There was shouting somewhere behind them; it seemed far away enough, but Tom didn’t dare look back. All he could do was grip Tamara’s hand and plough on and on through what had now become driving rain.

  At Fleet Street the road began to fill again. Cabs rumbled past them, but they were all full as the rain had drawn the walkers off the streets. Tom felt the fury and frustration of it rising up in him; burning hot in his face. They kept on going, puddle-splashed, their clothes drenched with water.

  ‘There’s one!’ cried Tamara.

  An empty cab miraculously pulled up nearby. They ran to it; in seconds they were in its anonymous cocoon, dry and safe. They threw their heads back and panted with relief, squeezing their hands tightly together. The cab began to inch forward.

  ‘Can you go any faster?’ called Tom.

  ‘Sorry, it’s bad out here,’ came the reply.

  The road was swelling with the inky chaos of rain and traffic. They moved forwards with the speed of a snail. Suddenly, a thunderous pounding shook one side of the carriage.

  ‘Oi! What’s goin’ on?’ yelled the driver.

  Tom turned to the window next to him and there, behind the glass, was Palmer’s face. The rain trickled over his bald head as if he’d just broken up through the surface of a lake. It laced along the scar on his cheek, almost filled the sockets of his small eyes. But Palmer didn’t seem to mind that. He studied Tom carefully, peering through his disguise, and then his face broke into a smile of recognition.

  ‘Hello there, Mr Winter,’ he mouthed.

  ‘Quickly!’ yelled Tom. ‘It’s a drunk; he’s trying to break into the cab!’

  The driver cracked his whip and they jolted forwards, somehow finding space to move ahead in the confusion.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ cried Tamara.

  ‘I know, I know,’ replied Tom, his heart almost pounding outside his chest now.

  ‘No. We need to get out of this cab. Palmer will catch up with us. We can’t just sit here waiting for him, we need to hide.’

  ‘Where?’

  She thought for a moment, the muscles twitching in her face.

  ‘In there,’ she replied, nodding ahead. ‘In the cathedral.’

  The looming mass of St. Paul’s lay ahead of them, its great domed back turned resolutely against the rain. As they came into its shadow the cab ground to a halt again, boxed in by other carriages at every angle.

  ‘Now,’ murmured Tom.

  They squeezed out, heads down, and wove through the crushingly narrow gaps between the carriages. Horses swayed their heads irritably as they manoeuvred around them, their hot breath forming clouds of steam in the air. At last they broke free and raced through the night air towards the looming walls of the cathedral.

  ‘There’s a door over there, at the south entrance. It’s our best chance,’ urged Tamara.

  They skirted the walls of the building and there it was. The door creaked open. They slid inside, pressing their backs against it as it shut behind them. Their lungs filled with the dry, cavernous air of the enormous building. The sound of the organ playing a gentle march floated towards them, although there didn’t seem to be anyone else there to hear it.

  ‘Must be practising,’ whispered Tom.

  A few lone candles flickered; just enough to ease the gloom of the vast, hollow space.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Tamara. ‘I know where we can hide.’

  She moved through the building as if it were quite natural for her to be there and he followed, their shoes scratching softly against the hard, cold floor. In the muted light the immense columns of the cathedral sprung up from the ground like white tree trunks and he could just glimpse the curved cheek of the dome high above. Tom found himself being led to a narrow staircase that began to spiral up and up through the stony half-light. Tamara went first. She removed the sodden bonnet as she climbed. He watched as her hair tumbled down her back and he listened to the hiss of her dress, rustling against the stone walls.

  ‘It’s a bit of a climb,’ she said breathlessly, turning her face back to look at him. ‘Two hundred and fifty seven steps to the Whispering Gallery.’

  ‘How do you know so much about this building?’

  ‘I attend lectures. About… anything and everything. It’s the only thing Mama really allows me to do. She regards it as an amusing whim but I’ve learnt a lot.’

  Tom smiled. He loved the beautiful way she spoke; the purposeful intelligence of her voice. He pulled off his own disguises, relieved to be himself again and alone with Tamara. The stairs were steep, but his feet
almost danced up them. He felt fuelled with more energy than he’d ever had in his life.

  When at last they reached the top, the sound of the organ had died. The gallery ran in a full circle around the base of the dome. They fell against its railings, catching their breath. Tom stared down at the long, perilous drop to the floor and then up into the gaping dome above their heads. It was eye-wateringly immense. He’d passed the building so many times but had never even thought to venture inside it before. How could such a gigantic space exist in the midst of London’s swarming swell?

  ‘You called it the Whispering Gallery – why?’ he asked her.

  ‘It’s a phenomenon. Pure magic. Wait here and I’ll show you.’

  She smiled liquid honey at him and then raced around to the other side with the enthusiasm of a small girl, her cloak billowing out behind her. When she was directly opposite, she came to a halt and turned to face him. He watched her lips move and then the whisper came, like a curling snake of mist into his ear:

  ‘Stay with me.’

  They gazed at each other across the great plunging cavern; two futures merging into one, lives sealing themselves together. And it seemed as if two spirits were stretching across that expanse between them, reaching for each other, entwining their limbs in a lovers’ embrace. And up they rose. Up and up into the great dome itself. Up and out of the top into the night sky, where nothing could reach them, where forbidden love could soar on forever.

  ‘Yes I’ll stay, of course I’ll stay,’ he whispered back.

  Tom closed his eyes and felt the perfection of the moment rush over him. But when he opened them again, something had changed. Tamara was stepping forwards, her hands gripping at the railings. Her honey smile had vanished and her face contorted into an expression of absolute terror.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, her voice tearing through the air like thunder.

  A hand folded over his shoulder. He flinched beneath its tight grasp, all the warmth of just seconds ago now curdling inside him. That portrait of the two boys flashed through his mind: Hearst standing behind his brother, hand on his shoulder, claiming him; the glum expression on Daniel’s face.

  He turned towards the hand. In the distance Tamara was running back towards him. He could hear her skirts rustling. Hearst’s face was livid, trickles of sweat glimmered on his temples. A long, snake-like vein throbbed in the side of his neck.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he bellowed.

  ‘No! Leave him alone!’ screamed Tamara. Her voice was getting closer.

  Hearst thrust Tom towards the railings with surprising force and pain arrowed through the middle of his spine. Beyond Hearst’s shoulder Tom saw a woman, bathed in shadows at the top of the stairs. He knew her, instantly.

  ‘Is this the man you truly want for your daughter?’ he yelled at her. ‘This hideous bully of a man?’

  Tom threw his fist into Hearst’s jaw and he flew back with a yelp like an injured dog. Hearst squirmed for a moment and then was up again, bruised and seething. He made towards Tom, but this time Tamara threw herself in his way.

  ‘Don’t touch him! Leave us alone!’ she cried, hurling white knuckles at his chest.

  Hearst grabbed her by the forearms and Tom pounced forward. But suddenly he could go no further. A wall of strength, as solid and indomitable as a cliff face, stopped him within an inch of her touch. One hand held him back by the chest, the other stretched its meaty fingers around his throat with a relentless satisfaction. The fingers were so tight that only the smallest trickle of breath could now find its way into Tom’s lungs. His mouth fell open like a gasping fish.

  ‘You thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?’ murmured Palmer, thickly.

  Palmer had appeared from the shadows as if by magic. Perhaps he’d arrived just like one of those whispers. But he was real, so real, and his strength was impregnable.

  Gasping for air, Tom could only watch on as Hearst dragged Tamara towards her mother. She was whining pitifully now, bent over double. Her hair had come loose so that he couldn’t see her face. She fell into her mother’s arms like a rag-doll.

  Hearst limped back towards him and Palmer, drawing his hand across his balding head over and over again. His nostrils flared; white at the edges. Thin lines of blood framed his upper teeth.

  ‘What shall we do with him?’ murmured Palmer.

  Hearst glared into Tom’s eyes for one hateful second and then shifted his gaze towards the railings. Palmer watched his master like a trained beast, waiting for its orders. Finally, Hearst nodded with a softness that was almost imperceptible. And yet it was enough.

  Tom’s head throbbed and bubbled above the grip of Palmer’s clenched hand. The world was turning blue. Somewhere in the distance he could see Hearst’s back, running away towards the stairs. He could hear a high-pitched woman’s scream.

  His body was being lifted upwards. He kicked and squirmed with limbs that were so lifeless now that they barely felt connected to him at all. Suddenly his head was upside down, hanging backwards over the railings. The fingers released his neck and he gulped hungrily at air. Above him the great dome looked down on his dangling body with pitiless eyes; he caught glimpses of the floor far below. Ready. Beckoning.

  He fought with every muscle now. One leg was still clenched over the railing, his foot anchored into a nook that held him tight. His right hand clutched at the arm of Palmer’s coat, whilst his left hand scrabbled against stone and metal. Palmer’s fist came hurtling through the air and a blow like a cannonball exploded into his stomach. Again he had to fight to breathe as his body jolted several inches further down. He caught sight of the floor once more and suddenly envisioned his bones exploding into white powder across it, like that flour oozing into the puddles on the Strand.

  Tom kicked out into air with his free leg, hoping to find Palmer’s face. His other leg was slipping now as his foot was twisted free from the nook by what felt like a dog’s frenzied jaws. Something smashed against his right hand and it sprung open, losing its clutch on Palmer’s coat. He heard himself scream as pain like fire raged through his fingers and up into his shoulder.

  With one last, frenzied kick, his foot finally met its target. He heard the crack of Palmer’s face, followed by an agonised howl. But as Palmer’s shadow fell back from view, Tom felt his own body slipping down and away. He clawed violently, his fingers now meeting nothing but air. The Whispering Gallery rose up and disappeared from sight.

  So, this was the end. This was the fate that had been written for him. His body plummeted down, down towards the relentless, murdering floor. He was a boy again, running away from the workhouse: the wind in his ears, the smell of the docks in his nostrils. Walter’s face appeared before him and he smiled.

  BOOK 2 – Tamara

  Chapter 12

  The church felt like a cold, damp cave. Outside, gusts of wind projected rain against the stained glass windows. Tamara watched as it made rivulets down Mary’s demure face. Rain. As far as she knew it hadn’t stopped raining since the night she’d raced to St Paul’s with Tom Winter’s palm embraced in hers. How many weeks, months, had it been since then? Time had passed her by in a haze. The vision of that crushed, curled body on the floor came to her for the thousandth time and she let her eyelids fall shut for a moment, succumbing to a swaying sensation that seemed to be taking hold of her. She imagined herself as a thin sapling, planted on a flat slab of rock in the middle of the sea. In the distance, black thunder clouds were rolling in and the waves were rising around her, solid and menacing like flint spears. She wanted to wrap her branches around herself, stoop her unbending body against the tumult. But she was powerless. Powerless and hopeless now.

  The air behind her erupted with a violent sneeze, jolting her back into the moment. It must have come from Daniel. He had a bad cold; perhaps the Somerset air didn’t agree with him after all. Mama was somewhere behind her too, a living statue in her best grey, with its new lace collar. She’d be frowning right now. Tamara didn’t n
eed to turn and look back at her from the altar to know that. She’d be angry at the way Tamara’s dress was hanging off her, as if it had been made for someone else.

  The Priest was mumbling over his prayer book. She heard him say her name: ‘Tamara Catherine Huntingdon,’ but the rest of what he said might as well have been in a strange, foreign language. And then suddenly Cecil’s voice rang out, clear as glass in bright sunlight:

  ‘I Will.’

  Her stomach turned and she glanced back at Mary in the stained glass window, drowning in rain. A leaf was fighting to get in, bashing itself repeatedly against the glass.

  ‘You will stop thinking stupid thoughts now and you will start remembering that you are about to become the wife of a rich man.’

  Those had been Mama’s comforting words after what had happened; in those first agonising days when Tamara could hardly breathe with grief.

  ‘A rich man who is also a murderer?’

  The slap had been so violent that it sent a wild scream shooting through Tamara’s ear. Her cheek had burned as if an iron had been pressed against it. She felt too confused and shocked even to cry.

  But Mama’s face had turned to ash; her hand visibly shook.

  ‘Don’t you ever speak of that again,’ she murmured in a voice low and trembling; so full of fear that Tamara could do nothing more than bite her lip until it hurt as much as her cheek.

  The church had gone quiet. The priest was looking at her through watery eyes; waiting for something, it seemed.

  ‘I Will,’ she whispered, wondering if this might suitably fill the pause.

  The Priest seemed content enough and began to mumble on. The leaf threw itself at the window yet again. How many more times would it do that before it crumpled into pieces?

  *

  The wedding breakfast was held at Dovestead Castle. Home. It wasn’t really a castle; just an ancient tower that had been added on to by Cecil’s parents in an attempt to turn it into a grand home. The result was an ugly monolith of a building made of red bricks, with the old tower stuck on at one end and a second tower at the other end that had been erected with the intention to replicate the old one and give the building symmetry. From a distance the towers looked like two great chimneys. In truth, the entire building looked more like a factory than a country home.