Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  My Dear Sister,

  You are not forgotten. Cecil’s birthday is approaching. I have arranged a concert for him in your home. There is nothing that you need to do. Cecil will not be in no position to argue.

  With fond, heartfelt wishes,

  WB

  Sister

  Sister

  She began to giggle just at the sight of the word. For the first time in her life, she was a sister. And she wasn’t a sister to some boring, faceless drudge of a person. Oh no. She was the sister of Walter Balanchine: the greatest magician on earth. A man who wore cloaks, and bottles and charms around his neck. A man who cared nothing for the rules of society. And, what’s more, he was planning something: something that was going to get her out of here.

  She lay back on her bedroom floor, half expecting to find another of his cryptic paintings scrawled on her ceiling. And then she began to laugh again as her whole body started to tingle with new life. She re-read the wonderful letter three more times, digesting every detail of it, analysing every word, and then she burnt it. As she watched the edges of the lovely paper curl up, tears crept into her eyes.

  ‘I am not forgotten,’ she whispered. ‘I am not forgotten.’

  *

  ‘Tamara! Tamara!’ he screamed.

  She raised herself up in the darkness and hurried to Cecil’s room.

  It must have been the worst nightmare yet. She could tell with just a single glance at him. Two haunted eyes stared back at her from the bed. He was panting like a dog. The air in the room smelt stale and rancid.

  ‘Take off your nightgown,’ he commanded.

  ‘I’m …,’

  ‘Take off your nightgown!’

  She undid the buttons of her nightgown and let it slide to the floor. He examined her body, up and down.

  ‘He’s here, isn’t he, that damned man, Winter?’ he panted.

  ‘No Cecil, he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s been in your bed, covering you with his vile slime!’

  She stepped towards him. ‘No, it was a dream. Feel my skin, it’s clean.’

  After a long pause he raised his shaking, terrified fingers and touched her arm, so quickly that he might as well have been plunging them into a roaring fire.

  ‘I am clean, Cecil. And Tom Winter is dead. You were there when he died.’

  He cringed away from her, wrapping his arms around his head, and began to weep pitifully, rocking to and fro. She gathered up her nightgown and left the room.

  Chapter 32

  The nights passed by and Cecil’s nightmares grew progressively worse. Often he screamed himself hoarse, until even the Brennan brothers began to look mildly perturbed by his behaviour. A doctor was brought in. He administered a heavy opiate and promised Cecil that it would send him into a stupor far below the realms in which any nightmare could exist. The result was disastrous. Cecil’s nightmares were just as intense as ever, but the opiate had the devastating consequence of locking him into his sleep; rendering him incapable of waking up and escaping the horror.

  Tamara knew that many of the dreams were about her. Often in his screams her name came flying out in a jumble of vile, desperate language.

  ‘Don’t… don’t touch her!’ was another cry that he repeated over and over again.

  The nightmares always preyed on his fear of the unclean. They took his greatest weakness and smeared and toyed and unravelled it in his mind, until his body was a quivering, twitching wreck. Sometimes he bit his tongue as he screamed. There was often blood and vomit on his bedclothes by the morning. His room always reeked of sweat and all the other bodily fluids that seeped from him during the tortures of the night.

  During the day, Patrick or Joe would carry him downstairs to his winged armchair. Tamara often sat opposite him, watching his withering face as he dozed. On one morning she ventured to play the piano for him. He seemed to find the music soothing. She performed her favourite repertoire of country songs and waltzes, and they lulled Cecil into what appeared to be a calm sleep. When she had finished, her fingers teased the piano keys as she debated what to play next.

  In past weeks, ever since the removal of his leg, Cecil had become rather fascinated by one tune: Death of the Lady. He generally had little interest in playing the piano, but this melody, one of his mother’s favourites, seemed to have appealed to his morbid sentiments. Tamara had never played it before, but she had heard it enough times to attempt it from memory. She raised her fingers and began to experiment with the notes. It was a simple melody; within a minute or two she had picked up the opening bars.

  ‘No!’ came a strangulated gasp.

  She halted and turned to discover Cecil keeling over in his chair. He was clutching at his chest.

  ‘Do not play that!’ he spluttered. ‘My heart …,’

  Another doctor came that afternoon. He let out vast quantities of Cecil’s blood, leaving him so weak that he was barely able to eat or speak. That night he couldn’t even scream. She could hear him whining in his sleep. She went to his door and listened to his rapid breathing and gurgling cries. Then she went back to her own bed and covered her head with her pillow.

  And then, the following day, the letters began to arrive.

  ‘What are these?’ asked Cecil, as they fell into his lap, one after another.

  They were acceptance letters. Tamara took them from him and began to read. They came from dignitaries, associates and all sorts of other people that Cecil had had dealings with in the past. All of them were pleased to have been invited to Cecil’s birthday concert and kindly accepted their invitation.

  ‘Tamara, what is the meaning of this? What have you done behind my back?’ he snarled.

  She lowered the letters and looked down at him in his chair.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘How could I have done anything when I am unable to leave the house or send a letter?’

  ‘Cancel it!’

  ‘I can’t possibly do that. So many people are coming. It would make us, you, look terrible Cecil. You can’t uninvite these people.’

  ‘Who did this? Tell me, who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mama perhaps. Maybe she wanted to arrange a birthday treat for you to make amends.’

  ‘Well damn her and damn you! I will not have all those people in my house.’

  But Tamara didn’t reply. It was quite evident that this wave of fury was already exhausting him. His eyelids hung low and his head began to tilt forwards. She called for one of the brothers to put him back to bed.

  *

  The next day a new man came to visit Cecil about finding Daniel. He wasn’t from the police this time. He wore a woollen overcoat that he seemed reluctant to take off. He had small, sharp eyes like a weasel. The room was closed to her as the two men spoke. She ached to try and listen in on their conversation, but Joe Brennan stood like a sentinel at the door.

  When the man left, he tipped his hat to her but didn’t say a word. Something about him made her turn cold inside. She imagined him sniffing Daniel and Sally out like a bloodhound. She could picture them now, restful and happy in each other’s company, in a small cottage perhaps, far way. But she could also see the shadow of that man rising up against their fire-lit wall; their happy expressions turning into grief and anguish.

  She clutched the new cluster of acceptance letters that had arrived that morning and went in to see Cecil.

  ‘Sir John and his two daughters can come to your party, Cecil. I’m rather looking forward to seeing them again after all this time. And the Glenisters!’ she said, passing a letter to him. ‘They’re coming up from Brighton especially.’

  Cecil took the letter from her and ripped it into quarters.

  ‘This is a farce. Uninvite them now.’

  He dropped the pieces to the floor and then placed a protective hand over his heart.

  She swallowed hard. ‘I can’t. Not when all sorts of people have made special arrangements to come. How would that appear to everyone? Most of Daddy’s business
partners are coming too; they are expecting to see you.’

  Cecil covered his eyes with his hand. He took several deep breaths, as though he were summoning up the strength to speak. ‘Tell them I am unwell!’ he murmured. ‘Write the letters now. I’ll have them sent.’

  ‘It’s not for another week. I’m sure you’ll be better by then. Just rest. I’ll speak to Cook about the food. She’ll be delighted to have something more to do.’

  She saw the anger inside him, bristling up in his shoulders like an enraged animal. But Walter had been right in his letter; Cecil just didn’t have the strength to fight properly anymore. She edged out of the room and paused for breath outside. What had Walter done to him? What powerful, treacherous thing had he planted in Cecil’s mind? There was, after all, no other excuse for those crippling nightmares of his.

  She thought back to the night of Daniel’s disappearance. As she had slept peacefully in her bed, some sort of spell must have been cast in this house. It was the only explanation. She found herself smiling as she conjured up visions of how Walter had done it. Perhaps he had poured himself in through the keyhole, like a puddle of black ink. Or maybe he’d swooped down the chimney.

  Cecil had accused Mama of being involved in Daniel’s disappearance. The accusation had sounded preposterous to Tamara at the time. But although she much preferred her fanciful visions surrounding that night, she now suspected that Cecil was probably right. Mama had been in their house that evening; someone must have let Walter in. And Mama had passed Walter’s letter onto her, after all. They had clearly had some sort of contact with each other.

  Tamara toyed with the almost inconceivable possibility that her mother was now trying to atone for all the terrible things she had done. The thought was too much. It made her feel joyful and hopeful and sick with bitterness at the same time. She went to talk to Cook about the food instead.

  *

  The next evening Inspector Ruthyn came to visit them. His face was solemn and he buried his hands deeply into his pockets.

  ‘We got as far as Glasgow,’ he said. ‘Our sources were extremely reliable and consistent until that point; we were certain we had his scent all the way. But in Glasgow we found…,’

  ‘A lot of Glaswegians, I daresay,’ said Cecil.

  ‘We found an empty hotel room. Our trail ended abruptly at that point; there wasn’t a clue, or a soul, who could tell us anything more. I do assure you that we’ll continue with our investigations. I have men working on this as we speak.’

  Cecil sighed wearily. ‘And I assure you that my brother is nowhere near Glasgow and never was in that city, or anywhere else in Scotland for that matter,’ he replied. ‘You’ve been led astray, you foolish man! You have no idea. Walter Balanchine is playing games with you, Inspector.’

  ‘Walter Balanchine has been performing in Paris for nearly a fortnight,’ retorted the policeman. Two livid red circles had risen up on his cheeks. ‘He has nothing to do with your brother’s apparent abduction. It is you who is being foolish, Mr Hearst, by hurling accusations at a man who isn’t even in the country.’

  ‘“Apparent abduction”, Inspector? Did I hear you use the word apparent?’ Cecil’s gaunt face broke into a churlish grin. ‘Oh you have been outdone,’ he sneered. ‘Go back to your school, or whatever place it was where you learnt your job. Go back and beg for a better teacher this time.’

  The policeman’s lip quivered. The livid spots on his cheeks spread down to his neck. ‘With all due respect…,’

  ‘No, I have no respect for this shambles of an investigation. I have my own man employed now, a private investigator, who has no interest in pursuing wild goose chases. Off with you now.’

  Cecil flicked his fingers at him in dismissal, but Inspector Ruthyn remained where he was.

  ‘I think you are making a grave error, Mr Hearst.’

  ‘Really? How interesting. Leave now, please.’

  Slowly the policeman backed away. He nodded politely to Tamara before leaving the room. As soon as he had gone, Cecil slouched back, deflated, in his chair. The conversation had clearly drained him. She rose quietly, eager to get away.

  ‘Have you put a stop to this stupid party yet?’ he murmured.

  ‘How can I? When I have no contact with the outside world?’

  ‘I already ordered you to write the letters. I’ll check them and have them sent.’

  His speech was beginning to slur; the exchange with the policeman had sapped him of all energy.

  ‘The party is for you, Cecil. And perhaps, if your man is able to find Daniel, then you will have even more to celebrate than your birthday.’

  He stroked the blanket on his knees. His neck arched forwards with the weight of his head; she could hear his dull breathing. ‘I have no desire to see any of those people,’ he whispered.

  ‘No? Well they are very keen to see you, and it’s far too late to cancel them now. Get some sleep; I’m sure that your nightmares will be over very soon.’

  *

  Cook seemed thrilled at the prospect of a party. She’d had little to do since their arrival and was pleased to have a proper role to play at last. Tamara decided that the concert should be held in the library; the same panelled room that Tom and Walter had once performed in. She recruited the Brennans to arrange the piano and chairs in the room, and even they seemed grateful to have something more to do.

  In between his increasingly lengthy periods of lethargy, Cecil continued to implore her to cancel the party. But just her gentlest objections to his requests seemed to tire him. His nightmares were making him weaker and thinner by the day. He could no longer even sit at the table to eat now; Tamara fed him in his chair with a spoon.

  ‘What are your dreams about?’ she asked him one evening, as she tipped a spoonful of broth, the only thing he would eat now, between his lips.

  He winced at her question and for a long time said nothing.

  ‘Awful, awful things,’ he murmured at last.

  ‘Why do they scare you so much?’

  ‘Because I despise the ugliness of this world.’

  *

  On the eve of the party, a note arrived for Cecil. He read it, many times over it seemed, and then he actually smiled.

  ‘Good news?’ Tamara asked, trying not to let her voice betray what she feared the most.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he nodded. ‘The boy has been found at last.’

  She felt a burning sensation rise up in her throat. She imagined that cottage again; that lovely place where she’d dreamed that Sally and Daniel might be, living a happy, quiet life together. The dream smashed to pieces in her mind. She saw nothing but a barren room now: a broken chair, an uneaten meal on the table, Sally shaking in the corner on her own.

  ‘Where did he find him?’ she ventured.

  ‘In some hovel in Wales, with that awful woman, making filth of my brother’s flesh. I’m not at all surprised to see her involved in this.’

  Oh Sally. So they had run away together; they’d found their happiness. And now Cecil was going to destroy it all.

  ‘I think this is enough to prove my brother’s lunacy. He’s awfully vulnerable and that money-grabbing little whore has had him under her spell from the start.

  Tamara stared at the wall and tried to stop herself from screaming. Were Walter’s plans all falling apart now? She could see their desperate, wretched faces; she could see poor Daniel, being raced back to London, a prisoner once again. She gripped the back of a chair.

  ‘Well, I said that we might have something more to celebrate, didn’t I?’ she said, although her voice came out as little more than a whisper. ‘Now, I think there should be no more talk of cancelling the party.’

  Cecil grunted back in response, but he didn’t try to argue.

  Chapter 33

  The night of the concert arrived. Tamara put on a deep blue dress that she hadn’t worn since her marriage. It had once been her favourite; she loved the elegant sweep of it so much that, in all her wretchedness, s
he hadn’t been able to bring herself to put it on again until now.

  She’d moved through the day in a sort of trance. Cook had brought in extra servants and there was a buzz in the house that felt foreign and a little unsettling after so much isolation. Tamara found that she wasn’t entirely sure what to say to the new faces that floated around her, and for much of the day she simply found it easier to take refuge in her room. There she soaked up the silence of her own company and drew her fingers through the soft creases of her blue dress that hung, waiting.

  Cecil didn’t emerge from his room all day. He’d had a terrible night; not that any of his nights were particularly good anymore. Tamara had found him shivering at the end of his bed at three o’clock in the morning, murmuring garbled gibberish in his sleep. Cecil was so thin and wasted now that, for the first time, she was able to detect the faintest likeness between him and the way Daniel had been at his most helpless. She grappled in her heart to find some sympathy for the tortured man, but found nothing. Was she turning into a cold, grey stone like Mama?

  No.

  Oh, no. Because to the tune of Cecil’s pained moans she could still see Tom Winter, her Tom, being sent to his death in St. Paul’s Cathedral. She could hear Daniel’s skull being pummelled by Cecil’s thugs, she could see her beautiful Briar running scared through the storm, Sally shaking in a lonely little cottage far away and Walter… Walter, her beloved brother. What would this man, her husband, do to Walter if he could get his hands on him?

  The sight of Cecil lying there only scared and repulsed her.

  ‘Now you know what it feels like, my dear,’ she whispered to him through the darkness.

  As soon as the blue dress slid over her body, she felt stronger and calmer. Suddenly she was ready to face the events that were waiting for her. Her hands stopped twitching. Her back felt straighter. In the mirror she noticed a new glimmer in her eyes. Whatever the night might unfold, good or bad, this was the end. She saw it before her as clearly as if she were reading the last diminishing pages of a book.