Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  Cecil’s energy had been extraordinary, almost miraculous then. But now, slumped in his bed, as breathless and lifeless as if he’d seen a ghost, something was very different about him. For the first time, Cecil looked like a patient.

  ‘Leave me,’ he said. ‘Go and wash yourself.’

  ‘Cecil, it’s early, not even five o’clock yet.’

  ‘Go and wash yourself,’ he growled. ‘And check on the boy’s fire.’

  She returned to her room and peered out of her window. The road was hard and black and sparkling. Her thoughts wandered back to Somerset; they seemed to be taking her there more and more. Not to the grisly swamp she’d been forced to live in, but to the lush greenness of it all; to the fresh air and the kind, familiar faces of Mr and Mrs Peters. How she’d love to have a horse again and pick wild flowers and learn to cook bread properly.

  She began her morning routine of washing. It was a new rule. Cecil usually watched, ensuring that every procedure was meticulously carried through. She performed it automatically now, transporting her mind to some distant imaginary place so that her body could go through with it without the distraction of wanting to cry. There was no point in overlooking any of the procedures when Cecil wasn’t there, because he always knew, somehow. He always found out.

  It began with seventeen strokes of a rough flannel behind each ear. This was followed by twenty strokes under each arm and between the inner thighs. The raw patches of skin resulting from this procedure were slowly turning hard and leathery, which was a relief. She then had to remove any eyebrow hair that had sprouted in the night. Just one rogue hair was enough to send Cecil into a fury. This was followed by an inspection of finger and toenails for any discrepancy in length and width and, of course, any dirt lingering beneath. There was more: ears, teeth, the skin across her chest seemed to be a cause of particular concern to him. And then her hair had to be brushed and styled exactly to his liking. Usually he preferred to perform this duty himself.

  When she had finally finished, and her stinging flesh had calmed a little, she went to check on Daniel. It was still very early when she entered his room and discovered the empty bed. His bedclothes were a little ruffled, as if he’d just got up and left the room. But Daniel didn’t ‘just get up’. Daniel could barely move. She felt a small jolt inside her, like the faintest aftershock of some monumental event far away. She bit her lip and hurried downstairs.

  There were voices, angry voices, coming from the kitchen.

  ‘I bolted it, I told ya!’

  ‘Nah you didn’t. Look at the state of ya! Boozing all night I bet. Ee’ll ‘ave us out of ’ere with your carryings on.’

  ‘My carryings on!’

  ‘Now now boys, keep your voices down.’

  Tamara entered the room to discover Cook standing between the Brennan brothers, fists dug into her hips. Patrick was standing to one side of her, looking angry and accusing. Joe was on the other side, sitting at the kitchen table. He was bleary eyed, as if he’d just been woken from a deep sleep. His head was actually resting on the table itself, too heavy for his haggard neck and shoulders to raise it up.

  When Tamara entered, there was an immediate hush and all three of them turned their eyes on her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Daniel. Has anyone seen him? His room appears to be empty.’

  There was a moment of stupefied silence as the three of them digested this information and then, in perfect unison, they dashed across the kitchen and plunged past her into the house. Joe, suddenly restored and invigorated again, led the stampede.

  Every room, apart from Cecil’s of course, was checked. Their faces grew increasingly desperate as it became quite clear that Daniel Hearst was nowhere in the building. They even rifled about in cupboards and checked under the stairs and behind curtains. Tamara watched on, bracing herself for the inevitable explosion.

  When she entered Cecil’s room, he was in exactly the same position as when she had left him earlier: slumped against the pillows, with his bad leg covered by the blanket. He was breathing lightly now. His eyes were closed, but she wasn’t entirely convinced that he was asleep. As she neared the bed his eyelids flickered open.

  ‘Cecil,’ she said softly. She crept a little closer and tried to fix her face with the most dour of expressions, even though her heart was turning cartwheels of joy.

  ‘What is it?’

  No, he hadn’t been sleeping. His voice was too steady and alert.

  ‘I’m afraid that Daniel is missing. He’s not in his bed and we can’t find him anywhere else in the house.’

  Cecil remained completely still. He didn’t even blink. But something dark and brooding passed across his face. Tamara’s joy froze inside her. Wherever Walter had taken him, she hoped that Daniel would be kept safe. Whatever Walter was planning right now, she prayed that he had predicted the magnitude of her husband’s rage.

  ‘Fetch the police,’ Cecil commanded.

  *

  ‘And you say that your brother has not left the house for many weeks?’

  Inspector Ruthyn was a tall beanpole of a man, who looked as if he’d been slotted into his uniform.

  Cecil sneered at him. ‘My brother is an invalid; a very sick man.’

  The policeman glanced at Cecil’s own blanketed lap and then quickly looked away.

  ‘Mr Hearst has been kidnapped, there is no other explanation,’ Cecil continued. ‘He cannot walk, cannot move by himself. Someone must have taken him.’

  ‘Could there not be a simpler explanation? Perhaps we could talk to friends and family first. There might even be some letters among his personal items suggesting a reason for his departure, or the location of his whereabouts. Have you looked?’

  ‘Did you not hear me man!’ Cecil shouted with such force that for a brief moment it almost seemed to raise his body up from his chair. ‘He has no friends. We are his sole family. He has no letters, no belongings. He has been kidnapped!’

  The policeman, seemingly unshaken by Cecil’s outburst, peered back at him with interest.

  ‘Do you suspect anyone in particular of having kidnapped Mr Hearst?’ he asked.

  Cecil looked carefully at his hands, inspecting each nail in turn. Tamara held her breath, waiting for the name to fall from his lips.

  ‘I have one strong suspicion; a man called Walter Balanchine.’

  As he said it, his eyes flicked across her face. She fought to retain her composure.

  ‘The magician?’ responded the policeman, his eyes widening with interest.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask your reason for suspecting this man?’

  Cecil sat forward, his face set in a mocking and contemptuous grin.

  ‘Now that, Inspector Ruthyn, is none of your business. Do you quite understand? You have a very clear brief and I expect you to stick closely to it: hunt Walter Balanchine down and find my brother before he dies of mistreatment. If you don’t find him quickly enough, then I will hold you personally accountable for his death!’

  Chapter 31

  Mama sipped her tea and pretended not to notice the new patch of seeping skin on Tamara’s neck. Cecil stirred from his state of semi-sleep.

  ‘Good Morning, Cecil,’ she said.

  He was slouched down so low, that his head barely reached half way up the back of the great, winged armchair. His hair was in disarray and his face that dull shade of yellow again.

  ‘I assume that there is no news of Daniel?’

  ‘Would I look like this if there had been any news?’ he snapped back at her.

  Mama sipped her tea again in response. She looked thin. Her hair was turning increasingly grey, just like the rest of her.

  ‘Inspector Ruthyn has found some evidence that Daniel might now be in Scotland,’ said Tamara. ‘We are hoping for some news soon.’

  ‘I see.’

  Mama stared quizzically at Cecil, as his eyelids sagged down again. His head was pressed back against the chair and his ja
w hung slightly. He looked like an old man.

  ‘Cecil is having great difficulty sleeping,’ Tamara whispered. ‘He has been suffering from nightmares.’

  Cecil gave a snort of derisive laughter. ‘Nightmares! Ridiculous, childish name for them… You have no concept, no understanding of how agonising my sleep is. Every time, every time I dare to try and rest…,’

  He gave a small gasp that sounded almost like a sob; his breathing began to quicken again. She could actually see his chest pumping up and down. He reached for the blanket that covered his legs and stroked it. He no longer ran his hands over his scalp as he used to. As a result, his hair was now a thin mesh of disorderly tufts. The blanket was his new comfort now. He clutched onto it like a pitiful child.

  ‘Do you not have work to do, Cecil?’ ventured Mama. ‘I imagine that you are sorely missed.’

  Cecil glared at her through his drooping eyelashes. ‘Do you think that I don’t know that, woman? Do you think that I am doing this for fun? My brother, no better than a helpless child, is missing. And we both know why, don’t we? I haven’t slept in days. My heart! My heart beats so fast that I positively feel as if it might jump out of my ribs. And you, you are telling me to go back to work!’

  Tamara stood up. ‘Come Mama, shall we sit elsewhere? We’ll leave Cecil to rest in his chair.’

  Mama followed her to the small conservatory at the back of the house. Although it was cold outside, the room had caught the morning sun. Tamara let it wash over her face; the heat soothed her sore skin. Whilst the house was undeniably a prison, she tended to think of the conservatory as more of an aquarium. It had the pretence of being quite civilised and comfortable and from here she could look out at the backs of buildings and even glimpse a few trees. Yes, an aquarium: a glass enclosed hole for her to bob about in like a miserable, trapped fish.

  ‘Cecil is in poor spirits,’ said Mama, stiffly.

  ‘Yes. He’s had nightmares for three consecutive nights now.’

  ‘Daniel’s departure has shaken him very badly.’

  ‘It has, but the dreams are not connected to that. The first one occurred before he even knew that Daniel was missing.’

  ‘Has he… any idea how Daniel escaped?’ Mama asked after a tentative pause. She fidgeted a little in her chair; her face seemed almost sullen.

  ‘He blames Walter of course, although there’s no evidence to prove that it was him. The Brennans got a terrible grilling, as I’m sure you can imagine. I think he would have dismissed them on the spot if he hadn’t been so tired and shaken… He can’t seem to do anything much at all at the moment.’

  Tamara gazed up through the glass roof at the sky. It was the palest possible blue. Somewhere out there, under that same sky, were Walter, Tom, Sally and Daniel. Wherever they might be, she was quite sure of one thing: Daniel was nowhere near Scotland.

  She looked back at her mother. Was this, finally, the right moment? Was there ever a right moment for such a conversation? She’d delayed and agonised over it for so long, but now with Cecil safely in another room, and Mama looking unusually timid, there perhaps wouldn’t ever be a better time.

  ‘Mama, I’d like to show you something.’

  She drew out Walter’s locket and put it in her mother’s hand. Mama stared down at it. She didn’t try to open it; she didn’t try to give it back. She just sat there, gazing at the thing.

  ‘You gave it to Walter, didn’t you?’

  She didn’t answer, but her hand began to shake a little. She quickly closed her fingers over the locket, clasping it tightly.

  ‘You see, I remember you in that lavender field,’ Tamara continued. ‘I remember the way you cried, as if something had been torn out of you and thrown away. I was so young at the time, but that vision never left me. And now I know exactly what it feels like to be cruelly robbed of something very precious. I understand those tears.

  ‘When Walter gave that locket to me and I discovered the sprig of lavender inside, as well as the engraved words that I’d heard so often from your own lips, I began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. There are still great, gaping holes in my understanding. I cannot tell you how many days and nights I have spent churning it over in my mind, trying to guess at the series of events that have carried us to this point right now, here in this genteel prison of mine.

  ‘But I am quite certain that those were tears of loss in the lavender field that day. That you were crying for the loss of your son, my brother. Am I correct, Mama?’

  Her mother lowered her hand to her lap; her fingers were still tightly clenched around the locket. She glanced anxiously at the door for a moment and then looked back at her.

  ‘Tamara, we will speak of this. I will explain everything, I promise you. But now is not the time,’ she said, urgently.

  ‘You know, I was not only robbed of a brother – a wonderful, miraculous brother – but I was also robbed of a mother,’ continued Tamara. ‘Because I was raised by a lie. You, Mama, are a lie, aren’t you? I heard a terrible rumour about your past. I tried to quash it, but I have an awful feeling that it might be true. Is it?’

  ‘Tamara, please. Not now. Please, trust me!’ urged Mama, trying to grasp her hand. But Tamara snatched her hand away. The mere touch of her mother’s skin made her recoil.

  ‘Is it true, Mama? Really? Is that the big dark secret that has turned you and me into Cecil’s slaves? I think it is. It’s all I’ve thought about: that rumour and the sad little locket that Walter handed to me. Two great pieces of your life that you desperately tried to lock away. I’ve thought about it for so long and each time I come back to the same horrible conclusion. He knows. About Walter, about every grisly, dishonest detail of your past. Cecil knows!’

  ‘Cecil knows what?’

  He was standing by the door of the conservatory, balanced on his crutches.

  ‘We were just, talking…,’ Mama stammered.

  ‘Talking, yes,’ he nodded. ‘About me.’

  There was a moment of crippling silence as he moved forward into the room. In the sunlight, his face was horribly sallow. The whites of his eyes had the tea-stained hue of old parchment; the corners of his mouth fell in his new-found scowl.

  ‘I’ve been wondering something Catherine,’ he began. ‘It occurred to me that perhaps you have something to do with Daniel’s disappearance. You were here that evening after all…,’

  ‘No!’ Mama retorted back. ‘I certainly did not.’

  ‘Oh, don’t feign innocence. You should understand me better than that by now. And yes, Tamara, Cecil does know,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Cecil knows perfectly well that your mother was once a whore who had a bastard child. Cecil knows that she pretends to be a grand lady, but is in fact no better than the dirt on the street. Cecil has always known and we’ve had such fun along the way, haven’t we Catherine?’

  Mama turned still as stone, as if a magic spell had suddenly been cast over her. Tamara felt almost as powerless. Cecil’s words were so raw, so painfully sharp, that she felt entirely unable to say or do anything at all.

  ‘Patrick!’ he suddenly yelled.

  Loud footsteps pounded down the corridor. Mama still didn’t move. She looked as if the merest touch might cause her to crumble into a pile of fine, dry dust. The lumpy face of Patrick Brennan appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Escort this woman from the house. She is no longer welcome here.’

  ‘No!’ shrieked Mama, suddenly coming back to life.

  Cecil narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Until you tell me where my brother is, you will see nothing of your daughter. Do you understand?’

  Mama began to shudder and sob as Patrick loomed towards her, his great hands reaching for her arms, ready with their grip. Still Tamara couldn’t speak, breathe, scream. She felt as if she’d been plunged underwater and everything unfolding before her was taking place in a distant, muffled world. The air around her seemed to be pressing in on her skin. She rose to her feet slowly as Patrick clamped one hand onto
her mother’s shoulder. But Mama lunged forwards, throwing herself into Tamara’s arms, pressing her wet face against her cheek. And, as she did so, Tamara felt Walter’s locket secretly slide back into the pocket of her dress. She felt the warm, confident weight of the object press against her thigh.

  As Mama was wrestled away from her, Tamara suddenly saw her mother in a very different way. How weightless and desperate she seemed, with her clothes now in disarray and swollen, crying eyes. How painfully sad. Strange that she should be losing this woman after only having just discovered who she was. Patrick dragged her from the room like an old, limp rag and Cecil followed them, without a backwards glance.

  When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Tamara reached into her pocket. The feeling of smooth metal, still warm from her mother’s touch, greeted her fingers. But there was something else there too: paper, a note perhaps. Mama must have slipped it into her pocket at the same time. She didn’t dare take it out in the conservatory, even alone as she was now. In the distance she heard the front door close with a decisive thud. Mama had been expelled; another piece of the outside world had been sliced away from her.

  She ventured out into the cool hallway. Cecil was standing there, still on his crutches, his head lowered as if in quiet meditation. He looked exhausted.

  ‘Go to your room,’ he muttered, as she approached him.

  She climbed the stairs gladly and shut herself into her bedroom. Crouching down on the floor by her bed, she drew out the paper from her pocket. It was a letter, enclosed in a small purple envelope half the size of the palm of her hand. She tore the delicate paper open and unfolded the little note inside. She immediately recognised the handwriting from the ceiling of the south tower. Her heart seemed to climb into her throat as she read: