Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  And then Walter’s stricken face flashed before his eyes. Something coarse touched his fingers and he grabbed onto it. Suddenly, the wall was looming towards him. He closed his eyes and held on with every muscle as his body buffeted against it. Fiery pain burst through him. When he opened his eyes, everything had doubled, no, tripled. And yet still he held on, so tightly that a raging lion couldn’t have prised his fingers from that cloth. Up and up he was drawn, like a bucket from the bottom of a well. And then Walter’s face emerged through the light at the top. Walter’s face. Home.

  ‘Vyhoď ho!’ bawled a voice.

  Tom prised his eyelids open. He realised that most of those drinking and serving in the inn had stopped to look at him.

  ‘Vyhoď ho!’

  Although he didn’t understand the words, he was beginning to make sense of their sentiment. When two firm hands thrust themselves under his armpits, his suspicions were confirmed. His cheek was peeled back painfully from the table and a moment later the cold night air hit him.

  ‘Jdi domů Angličane,’ muttered a voice behind him.

  Now that one he understood: ‘Go home Englishman.’

  ‘If only I could,’ he slurred back. ‘If only I could.’

  He fell over his feet for some way down the alley and then leaned back against a wall, gently lowering himself inch by inch to the cobbled ground. He’d sleep a little, just to give him the strength to get back to his room. It really was very cold out here. He could see his breath steaming out before him. But the beer would keep him warm; just for a little bit. He really couldn’t go any further.

  When he woke up again, it was because his cheeks were being slapped like slabs of meat.

  ‘What? No! Stop… stop it,’ he groaned, trying to flick the slapping hands away. ‘Leave me alone!’

  But they carried on until at last he had to open his eyes. A face looked back at him: small, thin-lipped and crowned with a scant mesh of hair. Below the face glowed a haze of orange that Tom wasn’t quite ready to digest yet.

  ‘Walter,’ he said, a big grin growing on his lips.

  ‘Hello, Tom. You’re very drunk and your face has turned blue.’

  ‘Really? I knew that the beer would make me drunk, but I didn’t know it would turn me blue as well.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get you back.’

  *

  Tom’s attic room had little more in it than a bed, a stove and a chair.

  ‘I have some strong coffee. It takes the roof off your mouth but pulls you back to life again – for a while at least,’ he told his guest.

  Tom warmed his hands over the stove as the pot bubbled. He was just about sober now, and could already feel the stale, grey aftermath of his night creeping through his limbs. Only the sheer joy of Walter’s sudden presence stopped him from collapsing onto his bed in an aching heap.

  Walter was staring out of the room’s tiny casement window. That was the one and only good thing about Tom’s new home: its stunning view over the city. The domes and spires of Prague were still nothing more than hazy silhouettes in this early morning hour. But they had a ghostly presence that seemed to capture Walter’s attention. He barely moved until Tom forced the hot cup into his hands.

  ‘How has it been for you here, my friend?’ Walter asked.

  Tom filled his mouth with the warm drink and let it trickle down his throat. ‘The city is wondrous, the music even more so. I have a job in a small theatre that just about pays. But I’m a dead man, here. I should have been a dead man many months ago. Why did you save me, Walter? Why did you send me so far away?’

  ‘Because you are my family. I thought, hoped, that you might be able to begin again. You always hated London so much,’ he pointed towards the window. ‘Look at how beautiful it is out there. How magical.’

  He took out his pipe and began to puff.

  ‘Have you any news…of her?’ asked Tom, unable to contain the question any longer.

  ‘She’s alive, which is about all I know. Their country home was destroyed in a violent storm. Hearst’s leg was crushed; it had to be removed. They’ve returned to London, but she’s heavily guarded.’

  ‘By Palmer?’

  Walter shook his head. ‘Palmer died with the house, along with the other servants. I heard that a great hole had been slowly forming over the years in the rock beneath it. The house just finally caved in and folded itself away inside.’

  The thought of Tamara being trapped inside such a perilous place made Tom shudder with the cold all over again.

  ‘Cecil has two new Palmers,’ Walter continued.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Brennan brothers.’

  ‘What, the Brennan brothers, from Hoxton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They used to skin cats. They beat us with sticks once!’

  ‘Details that would almost certainly have endeared them to Cecil Hearst.’

  ‘Oh God, God!’

  ‘Settle yourself, Tom. They match Palmer in thuggery, but even put together they possess barely half his cunning. It might not be such a bad thing after all.’

  But Tom couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought of those two grotesque criminals living under Tamara’s roof, breathing her air…,

  ‘Has she any source of happiness, anything at all?’ he ventured.

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘With all this magic at our fingertips, how could we have failed so dismally?’

  ‘None of it is real magic.’

  ‘Really? Is that so, Walter? In your heart, do you really believe that to be true?’

  Walter turned back to the window. The smoke from his pipe had filled the room with a warm haze which made Tom’s eyes begin to droop. The memory of his friend’s hands, pulling him into the alcove beneath the Whispering Gallery, ribboned through his mind. Walter had been there, in the perfect place, just at the most critical moment in his life. Now that was magic; that was true magic.

  How he’d wanted to sob, to cry out at that moment. But before he’d even had a chance, Walter’s hand had wrapped itself firmly around his mouth and he was motioning to someone down below. Mutely, Tom looked down too and saw the small figure of Kayan peering up at them from the cathedral floor; taking silent orders from his master. And then suddenly, as if playing dead, Kayan covered his head with his hands and threw himself to the floor. He and Walter had then crouched down together, a huddled mass in the corner, waiting for them to leave.

  The rest had been a miserable blur: the journey to the opium den, the hasty arrangements to ship him far away from the eyes of Cecil Hearst. Walter had done it all - cleaned up the mess and saved his life. And yet even so, he was a dead man. There was nothing for him anymore.

  He jolted, realising that he was now stretched out on his bed. Sunlight filtered through the small window and Walter was still standing there with his pipe, as if he’d barely moved at all.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone ten. You’ve had a sound sleep. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’

  He pointed through the window at a pair of gothic towers piercing the skyline.

  ‘There.’

  *

  They meandered through the narrow streets, crammed with the bustle of busy life. Tom’s head felt sore but not as dreadful as it probably should have. His legs, on the other hand, felt as if they had been beaten by the Brennan brothers’ sticks all over again.

  A gruff voice yelled out a warning as he walked headlong into the face of an upturned pig. The carcass was flung over the back of an enormous man with hair brimming out in spikes over his collar. Tom darted to one side, the pig’s dead, glassy eyes glaring back at him. His stomach flipped over; he was starving.

  They bought warm rye bread and sausages and continued on their journey. Walter looked about him all the time, as if drinking in the sounds and smells of the city. They came across two men arguing vehemently in the street. Their fists were raised and their faces red. It wasn
’t until the onlookers began to run for cover that a woman appeared in an upstairs window and screamed passionately down at both of them. The crowd started to laugh as one man made off into the back streets, his tail between his legs, whilst the other, looking hugely pleased with himself, entered the building.

  At last they found the place that Walter had pointed to: the magnificent church with the two towers.

  ‘It’s called Týn. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Tom.

  ‘Like something from another world,’ Walter murmured.

  ‘The towers aren’t quite symmetrical. One is meant to be masculine, the other feminine. They seem to reside over everything, don’t you think? Like two great gods guarding the city. A perfect union.’

  They both gazed up at the two great spikes in the sky. Birds swooped between them through the crisp, white air. Tom closed his eyes and let the foreign smells and sounds move through him. How he longed, ached to see her face.

  ‘We’re going home,’ Walter said, quietly.

  Tom opened his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘I have the makings of a plan.’

  ‘An illusion?’

  ‘Of sorts. I’ve been learning rather a lot about nightmares.’

  Tom’s heart galloped. His strength suddenly seemed to restore itself miraculously. His head was clear; his legs were strong and sturdy. He’d walk home if he had to, right now.

  ‘Are you saying that there really is hope?’ he whispered, hardly daring to form the words.

  ‘There is something we can do, I think. But first we have to make a small journey.’

  ‘A journey? Where?’

  ‘To a Silesian castle on a hill, guarded by statues of mermaids.’

  Tom opened his mouth in wonder, and then closed it again. He knew better than to bombard Walter with a thousand questions.

  ‘When do we leave?’ was all he dared to ask.

  ‘In one hour.’

  Chapter 25

  The late autumn sun had little warmth in it, but it still turned the meadows thick and golden. In the distance the old, beautiful city slowly shrunk away like a mirage in a desert. Tom thought about the small attic room he’d hastily said goodbye to and felt a pang of guilt at having deserted his job at the small theatre where he’d played the piano.

  ‘This city is full of musicians,’ Walter had said with a smirk. ‘They’ll replace you soon enough.’

  ‘Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.’

  Walter was now lying in the back of the waggon with a red handkerchief spread over his face. He’d finally given in to sleep. The waggon was comfortable enough. Towering about them were mounds of cloth, leather and woven goods, tied in large rolls and secured beneath a heavy canvas sheet. A dip in the middle provided just enough sitting and sleeping space for him and Walter.

  The old driver sat at the front, barely holding the reins and occasionally muttering something to the horses in Czech. They snorted back at him and loped onwards, as if his instructions were superfluous to their task and they could get on with the job just as well by themselves. The old man’s name was Jan.

  ‘I take you to castle,’ he’d said with a toothless grin back in Prague. Jan and Walter seemed to be the best of friends, sharing old jokes and slapping each other on the back many times over, even though Tom had no recollection of ever having seen the man before. But, then again, Walter seemed to collect people. He probably had a friend in every town between here and the furthest reaches of China.

  Jan wore an old navy jacket with missing buttons and every ten minutes or so he took a long swig from a flask.

  ‘What are you drinking there?’ Tom asked.

  ‘You want to try?’

  ‘No. No, thank you.’ He peered at the worn jacket, stretched over the stooped back. ‘Were you in the navy, then?’

  Jan peered around, confused, so Tom pointed to his jacket. ‘Your coat.’

  The old man suddenly smiled in recognition. ‘No, no. I take off dead man. Very good coat. I wear more than twenty years. I wear in London.’

  ‘You lived in London?’

  ‘Yes, I work in docks. Three years. Run away from my wife. Then I come back.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Docks stink like shit. Even my wife better than London docks.’

  Tom laughed heartily for the first time in months. It felt wonderful: to laugh again, to be with Walter, to be filled with hope. He had no idea where he was going right now, but he knew that eventually this journey would take him home. He was going home to the shit-smelling filth of the London docks and he wanted to cry with happiness.

  And he’d see his beloved Ma again, now safely entrenched in the Cornelius household. Would she even recognise him now? How terribly confused she must have been when he’d disappeared so suddenly.

  ‘You have to disappear,’ Walter had urged him that night, when they’d smuggled him into a noxious opium den by the river. His chin was set with determination; Tom had never seen his friend look so serious and intent. ‘I have to get you out of London, out of this country. If someone sees your face, anyone, then Hearst will find out. He’ll sniff you down with that dog of his, Palmer, and they won’t stop until they’ve got you in their jaws.’

  ‘But Tamara!’

  ‘You have to forget about her. Tom, if you keep pursuing this girl, you’ll kill her, too.’

  Tom had wept like a pathetic little child. The injustice of it all made him want to tear his own hair out, run screaming in the street. They’d been so close. So dazzlingly close. How different their lives could have been. Even now, the thought of Hearst’s smug, oily face; the way he brushed his hand over his bony scalp, and spoke to you as if you were nothing more than dirt on the street, made Tom’s stomach heave with fury and revulsion.

  He stopped himself and breathed deeply. He was going home. Walter had a plan. He looked back into the distance once more; Prague had disappeared.

  *

  Eventually Walter stirred, pulling the handkerchief from his face. He stretched out his long limbs.

  ‘How is Sally?’ Tom asked.

  Walter cupped his left hand and pushed the handkerchief into his closed palm. He held his fist to Tom with questioning eyebrows and then opened it. It was empty.

  ‘Jan! A little of that fine drink you have there, please,’ he called out, and the old man tossed his flask back into Walter’s hand. He unscrewed the lid and carefully pulled the handkerchief out from the nozzle.

  ‘I didn’t think you did tricks like that anymore.’

  Walter shrugged, ‘There are always exceptions. Sally is destitute.’

  Tom groaned. ‘God in heaven. How much damage can a man do?’

  ‘Not because of you.’

  ‘Oh, really? Then why?’

  ‘She has a new paramour. And this one loved her back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he happens to be Daniel Hearst.’

  ‘The boy? Are you quite serious?’

  ‘I am indeed. She was his nursemaid until his dear brother returned to London and discovered that the people he hired her from knew nothing of her. It was a shame. She did wonders with Daniel; turned him into a real man. There’s nothing wrong with him, apart from the misfortune of having such a sibling. It was an ugly scene, when the brothers threw her out. We’re not sure what Hearst’s done to Daniel, but he hasn’t be seen since.’

  Tom sat silently as they rattled through a village. Small children ran to greet the passing waggon; chickens jumped out of the way with a squawking clatter. Poor Sally. Of all the people who deserved better, it was her.

  ‘We have to help her,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes. Yes we do.’

  They spent the night in a farmhouse outbuilding, where Jan made the first of his deliveries. By daylight they were back on the road again. The morning passed calmly enough, but by the afternoon the sky had turned purple. Tom and Walter crawled under the canvas and listened to the thunder as Jan plodded on; too drunk it seemed to be bothered a
bout the weather.

  As a great thunderclap roared overhead, Tom smiled at an old memory that came flooding back to him.

  ‘Do you remember when you turned that boy into a rat?’

  Walter thought for a moment. ‘Jeremiah Wilmot.’

  ‘That was his name! You did it just when it started thundering.’

  ‘Now that was good timing. I was very lucky there. And he deserved it quite frankly; he broke two of my ribs.’

  ‘Where did you hide him?’

  ‘In a cellar. He was so scared by the end of it that he really thought he had been turned into a rat. His mother accused me of black magic you know.’

  Tom snorted with laughter.

  ‘You’re a marvel, Walter Balanchine.’

  ‘Ah yes, but a nameless marvel nonetheless.’

  Walter’s face suddenly turned dark.

  ‘What do you mean? You have an excellent name; you chose it well.’

  ‘Thank you, I did. But it still isn’t my name, is it? No one has ever known my true name, or who I really am. The only person who just might have been able to tell me something was your poor old Ma.’

  ‘Oh, come now! Surely you didn’t believe any of those things she used to say about your mother. I love my Ma dearly, you know I do, but she can’t even remember her own name.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled; your Ma knew something. I could always see it there, flickering in her eyes. She just couldn’t find the right words to say it.’

  The storm clouds eventually passed away and they emerged from under the canvas. The air felt fresh and bright again; raindrops glistened across the rolling fields like jewels.

  By the early evening they had made good progress. They stopped at an inn to make the second of Jan’s deliveries and decided to stay the night there. Tom’s bones felt bruised and weary from being rattled about for so many hours. He fell into his crude bed and slept deeply.