‘He’s not staying here a moment longer,’ she whispered. ‘Another day and he’ll be a corpse. Daniel!’ she called softly in his ear.
Very slowly, his eyelids began to flutter open. When he saw her face he started a little.
‘Is it…is it you?’ he murmured.
She smiled and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.
‘Yes!’ she answered. ‘I’ve come to take you away from here. I’ve come to make you better.’
Walter and Kayan stepped forward and Daniel turned his eyes to them in even more astonishment.
‘Walter,’ he whispered.
Walter smiled back and unhooked a small bottle from around his neck.
‘Drink this; it will give you strength for now. Sally and Kayan will get you up. I’ll be back, shortly.’
Tom followed Walter out of the room, glad to escape the crushing heat of the air. The corridor was still quiet and empty, but the urgent sound of a ticking clock had begun to pound in Tom’s head. They had to hurry; they had to act quickly and then leave this place. Horror and fear at what they were doing made him squirm in his black clothes. The unseeing eyes of the marble busts seemed to be smirking at them now from every direction. He peered back at them, half expecting one of the figures to transform into Cecil Hearst at any moment.
Kayan’s map had shown them that Cecil’s room was three doors further along to the right. Tamara’s room was directly opposite his. Walter’s face looked deep and grave as he paused at Cecil’s door. He laid his fingers on the handle, closed his eyes, and began to breathe slowly and methodically. With the fourth or fifth breath, his expression suddenly seemed to relax. It was as if he’d entered another state: solemn and almost trance-like. He lowered the handle and entered the room with the soft, assured gait of a sleep-walker.
Tom remained on guard in the corridor. Walter had kept his plans for Cecil Hearst to himself and had made it clear that this meeting should be private. He felt torn between wanting and not wanting to know what Walter would do. Just the thought of what was happening now, behind that door, made his skin crawl. Walter had many powerful reasons to inflict any number of horrors on Cecil Hearst. His outrage at Catherine Huntingdon’s confessions still ran fresh in his veins after all. Many a man would have killed Cecil outright in his sleep with such motives bubbling inside him. But no. No. Walter wouldn’t do such a thing; Tom knew him better than that. Firstly, Walter would never implicate Tamara and Daniel and, secondly, his friend didn’t have the taste for blood and gore; it wasn’t in his nature to assault another person, however terrible that person might be. And yet…and yet all day long Walter had borne the solemn, patient countenance of a hangman readying himself for work.
Tom shuddered and took several paces back, so that now he was almost touching Tamara’s bedroom door. He pressed his head back against it gently and listened to the blood whirring in his ears. Was she even in there? He’d promised them all not to look for her tonight, but how could he possibly stand here, only inches away, and not see her? She was so close; they were breathing the same air once again.
Just one push, so gentle that he’d hardly been aware of doing it, was enough to make the door glide open. He turned around and stepped inside.
There she was.
She was fast asleep. Her chest rose and fell softly and her face was turned directly towards him, almost as if she’d been expecting his visit. The curtains to her room were open. A beam of amber light from outside streaked over her form. Her hair was untied. It lay in thick tendrils on her pillow. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. How he longed for those almond shaped eyes to open and for the smiling girl to re-emerge before him. It would be so easy to wake her softly from her sleep right now, to lead her out into the night and take her far, far away from this evil place. How easy it would be. He took a step closer.
Cecil will find her; he will always find her.
Catherine Huntingdon’s tormented face came back to him. The hopeless misery of the woman prickled through his skin.
‘You won’t be harmed Tamara. Not anymore. Not anymore. I’m here. I’m back,’ he whispered.
A distant sound, footsteps, reached his ears. He sprang back into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him. He listened, carefully. They seemed to be coming from the main staircase just beyond: great, heavy, plodding footsteps. He pressed his ear against Cecil’s door. Inside he heard the hum of a melody being murmured in a low voice. The footsteps were getting louder; soon they would be at the top of the stairs. A shadow fell across the landing.
Tom buried himself in the recess of Cecil’s door and watched as the figure entered the corridor. Joe Brennan. Sally was right; he really was even uglier than his brother. Tom hadn’t seen him for years and yet he could still feel the smarting pain of those sticks the brothers had beaten him with. They’d been little more than boys then, even Joe; large, ugly and oafish though he was. Nothing much had changed about him, apart from his size. As he turned into the corridor, it felt as though a large stone had slotted into place and was beginning its thunderous, rolling journey towards him.
He was carrying coal, no doubt for Daniel’s immense fire. Propped up on the filthy black lumps, was the remains of the buttered bread Tom had spotted earlier in the kitchen. As the figure approached, the soft humming in Cecil’s room stopped. Joe Brennan was only a few feet away now. His great vegetable face was chewing away at the bread. His shaggy mop of red hair had been combed back from his face in an almost laughable attempt to make him appear smarter.
Tom reached for the door handle, ready to dive into Cecil’s room, but just at that very moment the door opened miraculously of its own free will, or so it seemed.
‘Brennan!’ whispered Tom, as Walter appeared in the darkness on the other side.
Walter nodded and then stepped directly out into the corridor so that he came face to face with Joe Brennan. Beads of sweat instantly started up on Tom’s forehead as he watched the man stop abruptly in disbelief, mid-chew. His sunken eyes swept incredulously across Walter’s face and then he drew in a deep breath, as if he were about to bellow the house down.
‘Hello Joe,’ said Walter, stopping him in his tracks. ‘Do your recognise me?’
The man paused. Something about the way Walter was looking at him seemed to have captured his attention, but he didn’t reply.
‘I am one of these statues,’ continued Walter, indicating the busts all around them. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
Joe’s eyes scanned the corridor and then they flicked back to Walter. The remains of his half chewed bread hung loosely in his mouth and a dribble of saliva trickled over his lip. Still he said nothing.
‘Come with me, Joe. I want to introduce you to Aphrodite.’
Walter led him to one of the female busts just beyond Cecil’s room.
‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she? And she’s had her eye on you Joe Brennan, ever since you entered the house. She didn’t want me to say anything,’ added Walter, and now his voice fell to the softest of whispers, ‘but I’m terrible at keeping secrets. Will you let her talk to you, just for a little while?’
Joe gazed into the white eyes of the statue and then nodded slowly.
‘Well done Joe, I’ll be back soon.’
Walter tip-toed back to Tom and led him swiftly away by the arm.
‘I wish you’d done that the last time we came across the Brennans,’ muttered Tom.
‘So do I.’
‘How long will it last?’
‘Hopefully long enough.’
‘What about Cecil?’
‘Finished.’
Sally and Kayan jumped up nervously when they re-entered Daniel’s room.
‘Is it all done?’ asked Sally, rushing towards them.
Walter nodded.
Daniel had been dressed and now sat on the edge of his bed. His face was full of lines and the yellowing remains of a bruise stained the right side of his jaw. He looked dazed, but his eyes were spark
ling; they never left Sally.
‘Time to go,’ said Tom.
Between them they raised Daniel up and half carried him down the back stairs. In the kitchen, Tom noticed the empty plate where Joe’s bread had been. He smiled to himself.
‘Am I free at last?’ asked Daniel, as they plunged out into the night.
‘Yes,’ they all replied in one voice.
*
Sally and Daniel were married the following morning in the Methodist chapel close to Samuel Street, where Tom and his Ma had once lived. A milky light flooded through the single, clear window and the bride wore a simple, dove grey dress. Tom, Walter, Kayan, Cornelius and the Missus were all there to witness it. Daniel looked frail, but he stood throughout the ceremony. He and his bride gripped their arms so tightly together that it was difficult to tell who was supporting whom. Tom suspected that it was probably something of both. When they turned to face their witnesses, their expressions were awash with relief and absolute devoted bliss.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Sally afterwards.
‘Thank you? When you have offered me selfless friendship and support for as long as I can remember? I am the one who should be humble.’
She looked thoughtfully at him. ‘You still have a journey to finish, Tom Winter. But I have faith. I believe in you, and Walter, and my lovely Tamara.’
He felt a hand in his and looked up to find Daniel’s face. His eyes were glistening with joy and emotion.
‘You’ve found somewhere safe to go?’ said Tom.
‘I’m taking him back to Wales. The church has found us somewhere remote enough for now,’ Sally nodded. ‘The Welsh air made me strong and it’ll work for him, too, I daresay.’
Daniel beamed in admiration. ‘I’d follow that woman to the ends of the earth if I had to.’
‘She’ll hold you to that,’ Tom laughed, but then he turned to Daniel and lowered his voice. ‘Take care, really. And keep as quiet as you can. There’s still much to achieve and none us is truly safe yet.’
Daniel nodded. His face suddenly turned wistful. ‘If only I could have altered the past. Altered him in some way.’
‘Don’t look back; there’s no use. Only think of what you have now. We’ll send news, once you can let us know where you are. Poor Kayan won’t let us forget you, you can be sure of that!’
Kayan was embracing Sally so tightly that she seemed barely able to breathe. His dark eyelashes were turned down and they were wet with tears.
‘Another victim of Sally’s love,’ said Daniel, shaking his head and laughing fondly at the two of them.
*
When the couple had left, Tom, Walter and Kayan returned to the graveyard. Sinbad circled them all as if he were expecting Sally to appear miraculously from behind one of them. When she didn’t, he growled nonchalantly.
‘He like Sally. He like countryside too, more than London,’ said Kayan, burying his tear stained face into the panther’s neck.
Tom held his hand out and Sinbad licked it very softly.
‘More of a country cat, are you? Perhaps you should have gone with Sally,’ he mused. ‘I wonder what they would make of you in Wales.’
Tom found Walter later, sitting on a gravestone in the cold air and smoking his pipe.
‘Mary Winston,’ said Walter, nodding at the little gravestone. ‘Spinster. Badly burned in a fire in her youth. Died of consumption.’
Tom peered at the simple, carved letters that formed her name in the rough stone. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because she taught me how to read. She was the only one who ever spared the time. Mary was a volunteer at one of the places they put me in in the early days. A lot of the children, and the adults for that matter, were scared of her burnt face. But I didn’t mind. We were both odd looking. Might as well be odd looking together; give them all something more to stare at.’
‘Does the staring upset you? You’ve never shown it, even to me.’
Walter looked into the distance. ‘Well, I must be nothing short of a magician then.’
Tom sat down beside him on the cold stone. Sally and Daniel would be far away from London by now. He wondered what sort of storm was howling in the Hearst household, now that Daniel had gone.
‘She helped us you know. Your mother. She kept her word.’
‘Yes, she did,’ Walter replied.
‘Do you hate her?’
‘I’m not quite sure yet. I haven’t made up my mind.’
‘Walter?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘For now, we wait.’
Book 4 – Nightmares
Chapter 30
She jumped up in bed. The sound had transported her from deep sleep to intense alertness in a mere second. It came again: the strangulated yelp of something, someone, being horribly attacked.
‘Who is it?’ she cried, her own voice sounding shrill and small in comparison. She flew from her room into the corridor.
The sound came again from behind Cecil’s closed door. Tamara paused, wondering what to do. Was he being murdered? Perhaps the Brennan brothers were in there right now, torturing him. They looked like the sort of men who might happily take a person apart piece by piece, after all.
She shook the thought away almost as quickly as it had come into her head. Of course it wasn’t the brothers. Cecil paid them far too much. She’d spotted Patrick leering over his new pocket watch only the other day. Soon they would be as well turned out as Palmer had been, although it wasn’t easy to imagine such men looking groomed and impeccable.
Yet more agonised yelping sliced through the air. Tentatively, she pushed open Cecil’s door. To her surprise, he was completely alone in his bed, thrashing about violently and swinging his head from side to side on his pillow. His bedclothes had been cast off and he was gripping a knotted mass of sheets in his hands. He screeched petulantly, baring his teeth like a dog. His eyes were screwed up tightly, as if he was trying to stop someone from gouging them out.
‘Cecil?’
He didn’t seem to hear her. He carried on, kicking fiercely into the air with his good leg. The stump of his other leg knocked against it. Sweat poured down his face.
‘Cecil!’ she shouted, pushing his shoulder at first and then shaking him awake with both hands.
Suddenly he opened his eyes. The thrashing stopped immediately and he became very, very still. His face had turned yellow, entirely drained of blood and, despite his stillness, his breathing was startlingly fast; as if he’d just raced to the top of a steep hill. His hair was so entrenched with sweat that it had turned into lines plastered over his scalp.
‘Cecil, are you alright? Why were you screaming like that?’
He stared at her fixedly, as if in a trance. Apart from his rapid breathing, his strange paralysis made the goose pimples rise up on her arms. He barely seemed to be there at all. The whites of his eyes were livid red and his pupils no larger than minute pinpricks. She wondered whether he could actually see her.
She stepped away from him, but this movement suddenly seemed to knock him back into consciousness, as if she’d broken a spell. He shook his head, rubbed at his face and blinked repeatedly. After some moments he raised himself up on his forearms.
‘Look about my room, Tamara,’ he said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Is everything still there? Is everything as it should be?’
She looked about her. The wardrobe door was open an inch, just the way he liked it. All his belongings were perfectly positioned on the table and bureau.
‘Yes.’
‘My clothes, check my clothes. Are they not torn, shredded? Are they not stained?’
She opened his wardrobe door and inspected his immaculate array of garments.
‘No Cecil, they are exactly as they were before.’
‘The carpet? Is it filthy? Are there creatures on it? What lingers there?’
She peered down at her feet.
‘There’s nothing here. Nothing has changed.’
His breathing seemed to settle a little.
‘Raise me up, let me look,’ he ordered her, the sound of mistrust and fear still evident in his voice, despite her assurances.
She lifted him by the shoulders and he slumped back exhaustedly against the pillows. He scrutinised the room, eyes narrowed now, taking everything in like an old, bedraggled vulture searching for signs of life.
‘Then it was a nightmare,’ he said finally, more to himself than to her. ‘Nothing but a nightmare.’
But this realisation seemed to do little to compose him. His face was still yellow; the sound of his breathing whistled through his dry lips. He had been so shaken that he’d even forgotten about his bad leg; the withered stump lay exposed on the sheets. Cecil caught her glance and quickly threw a blanket across it. He pulled the new face that he’d acquired with the loss of his leg: a mournful scowl that drew both corners of his mouth down almost to his chin. And yet even this seemed to require too much effort in the circumstances. The scowl quickly drained away, as if even his own anger was too much for him to bear.
Tamara had never seen Cecil look so unsure of himself. Even in the early days of his injury, he had seemed less vulnerable than he was now. After the terrible night of the storm, he had refused anything more than the basic treatment of the country hospital, insisting, even in his feeble state, on an immediate return to London. She, Sally and Daniel had escorted him back, assuming that from now on they would be caring for an invalid; a broken man. How naïve they had been. Cecil had recovered quickly, and although he ranted and raged over the removal of his leg, his plight almost seemed to fuel him with more life and energy than ever before. They were also entirely unaware of the plans he was busily hatching for their new life.
The Brennans, Palmer’s successors, arrived within a couple of days; like two greedy, greasy rodents. It was as if Cecil had had them waiting in the wings all along. And then came the ugly day when he discovered the truth about Sally. How small and fragile she looked when the brothers forcefully muscled her out of the house. It was painful even now to recall the way Daniel had tried to fight them off her. Tamara could still hear the sound of his skull, crunching and groaning under their fists; his poor body dissolving on the floor. And Cecil had watched it all. He hadn’t cried or even winced at the sight of his brother being beaten close to death. No. He’d smiled.
Illusion Page 27
