‘You should be asleep, missus.’
‘And yet I am not.’
‘No.’
He lifts a skinny arm then, and she sees the knife. It catches the light and beams at her. She reaches for her belt, and the sheath that knife lives in. It was given to her by her mother for their wedding.
‘That is my knife, Tom,’ she says, stupidly, as if that were the pertinent point of this tableau. The tied-up Sidrach, and the wild-eyed sozzled boy, and the strange chemical pounding of her head – and yet this small act of larceny is the detail that snags her.
‘Your knife. Yes, yes. And I will give it back. After.’
‘After what, Tom?’
‘After I kill him.’
She shuffles forward, hand outstretched. His response is a quick and panicked push of the knife towards Sidrach’s neck, pressing the sharp point into the skin until it draws blood and both of them gasp at the thick red bead that appears as if by wizardry on his skin. Sidrach snuffles within his bounds, his head still drooping.
‘You will not kill him, Tom.’
‘Will I not?’
‘Please, Tom. Do not do this. You are to escape this place. I told you before. Untie him now, while he sleeps, and he will never notice.’
He shakes his head. Realization clicks in hers. ‘The beer? There was something in it? Something from the apothecary?’
He nods. The fog in her brain has a cause, if not a name.
‘Do not do this, Tom. Not for my sake.’
‘Lord, missus. It is not for your sake, though I do love thee dearly.’
‘For whose sake then, Tom?’
He yelps, like a puppy. Tears fall. ‘I need to tell him, missus. Him. For whose sake I do this. ’Tis why I did not just slit his throat while he slept. I’m waiting now for him to wake. For him to know why. For him to see my face when he dies.’
He is talking himself ferocious. His face is a jumble of tears and snarls, and she does not recognize him. She cannot see the sweet boy who starts at shadows. But she must assume that boy is here somewhere too.
‘I will just sit here, then, Tom, will I?’ She points to the nearest chair. Her voice is low and gentle, aware of the shake in the hand that holds the blade. As you would talk to a frightened animal, pushed into a corner. All bared teeth and quivering fear.
He nods. She pulls the chair towards her, and the scrape of its legs on the floor is loud and echoing. Sidrach does not stir.
Suddenly there are footsteps along the street outside. Footsteps that sound loud and booming in this deliberate silence. Through the dimpled window she can see the swing of a lamp. The bellman. ‘Ten o’clock,’ he calls. ‘Ten o’clock and a warm night to come.’
Tom sits next to Sidrach, staring at her. She wants to reach out and draw him in. She settles for a smile, which makes the child cry all the harder.
‘Why, Tom?’
He shakes his head. A furious movement, informed by the red wine. He reaches for the bottle.
‘No!’ Her shout is loud in the quiet house. He starts, nervous, and looks at her.
‘Tom, let us not cloud our senses. No more wine, dear boy. Cool heads.’
He nods, and lets his head sink down on to his arms.
Time slows. She has never been good at sitting still, at doing nothing. As the night creeps on, she finds to her astonishment that she is bored. She cannot concentrate her mind’s eye, with the knife shining and Sidrach drooping forward. She cannot think of other things – the scene does not allow for such frivolity.
And yet. Yet. She cannot think about what happens next either. This absurd impasse is too difficult.
So she sits and waits for Sidrach to wake up; dreading and longing for that moment in equal measures. She concentrates on listening to his breathing. Is that lighter breath a sign of stirring? Is that twitch in his foot just a dream?
The sky outside begins to lighten at last. She can hear the tweeting of birds.
Tom rises and stretches. He cuts himself a slice of bread. She watches the slow saw of the knife through the crust, and thinks, queasy, about what will come next. She is fascinated by Tom eating as if this is a normal morning.
There is a sudden strangled gasp from Sidrach.
She jumps, feeling the stabbing thump of her heart. Tom tenses. The bread falls to the floor.
Sidrach pulls his head back, moves it from side to side. He looks pained; his eyes are screwed tight shut still.
Don’t open. Don’t open.
They open.
He garbles something. She makes out the word ‘What?’, repeated with mounting incredulity.
Tom looks at her. She shrugs at him. The absurdity of it all strikes her, and she nearly giggles. She manages to swallow it, just.
Sidrach looks at her. ‘Patience,’ he says. His tone is a warning and a question all at once.
‘It is not. That is. I.’ She retreats into silence.
‘Tom.’ A bark. ‘Tom.’
‘Sorry, mister. I mean, I ain’t sorry. I’m going to kill you.’
He says the words with a befuddled air. Sidrach snorts. ‘Ridiculous boy. Untie me now.’
‘I will not.’
‘Untie me now, or I swear to the Almighty and His son that I will kill you.’
‘I will not.’
Patience, sitting in the chair between them, has a sudden urge to run away. She could leave this scene to play itself out. She could let the boy do what he feels he must. Let Sidrach rub against his bonds. Let the knife strike and Sidrach’s sour blood gush. And yet she cannot. She cannot move. And she cannot abandon Tom.
‘Patience. Untie me.’ She twitches forward at the command. She is so used to obeying him. She sits on her hands to stop them moving towards the knots.
Tom lifts his knife, looking at her down the point of it.
‘Do not move, missus.’
She stays still.
‘Tell us why now, Tom,’ she says, gently.
‘Why. Why. Do you know where I was born? Do you know where I was a boy? Do you know where I lived with a mother who loved me and a father who didn’t hit me? We had a servant. Now look. Oh, my mother, missus. You would have liked her. Loved her.’
‘Where were you born, Tom?’
‘In Drogheda. Drogheda.’ He says the name again, spitting it towards Sidrach like an accusation.
It means little to Patience. But something in Sidrach’s face changes, and for the first time she sees fear writ there as well as anger.
‘Not much, Drogheda. Not like London, nor even Dublin. But home, missus. Until the soldiers came. Don’t know much about why. They closed the gates. All the men went to the walls. My father, one morning. He went.Just walked on, whistling. Holding a pike. Never saw him again.’
‘How old were you, Tom?’
‘About seven, missus. My mother, she was frightened. Talked of the devil Cromwell at the gates. Said we should surrender, but the men were too puffed up with the fight. That’s what she said.’
‘The general offered terms, Tom,’ says Sidrach, slowly and quietly. ‘The Royalist commander refused. What happened next was the natural course of the war.’
‘Natural?’ A bitter, mirthless laugh. ‘Jesus wept, missus, but the noise. When they came on. The screaming. Shouting. They set fire to the church, with hundreds of men inside weeping for their God.’
‘Their God. Papist scum,’ Sidrach sneers.
‘Theirs is as good as yours. Better. Kinder!’ Tom is shouting, and he struggles to bring himself back under control.
Patience watches Sidrach forcing himself not to retort.
‘My mother,’ says Tom. ‘She knew they were coming. She hid me in the coal tip. Kissed me first. The men came in. Held her down. She told them where the money was. The food. She didn’t tell them about me. I thought they would let her go then. I could see, missus. A crack in the wood. I could see them tearing her dress. Laughing. Holding her down. She was crying. Turned to look at where I was hidden. She . . . she tri
ed to smile.’
He wipes a dirty sleeve across his mouth. ‘The man on her then. He swore at her for smiling. Called her names. And then he collapsed into her. Stood up. I thought it was over. Thought they would leave.’
He shudders. She wants to hold him, but she is motionless.
‘He slit her throat.’
He turns to Sidrach. Looks at him and says with quiet fury: ‘You slit her throat.’
‘Me? And you know this, Tom? I was at Drogheda, yes. But so were thousands of other soldiers.’
‘Your mates, they laughed. Then one of them called your name. Said: “If the people of Blackfriars could see you now, Sidrach Simmonds.” I’d learned English, you see. My family were known in that town. Rich enough to be tutoring me, not like my cousins. I understood what they said. Heard your name. Another one repeated it. Sidrach this, Sidrach that. I was there, all black from the coal. Coal in my throat, my nose, my mouth. Concentrating on not crying aloud. Then, Sidrach Simmonds, you stood up. Wiped your knife. Swore when you slipped in her blood.
‘After, I worked the coal ships. Found out where Blackfriars was. Came to see it. And then I saw you.’
Sidrach looks towards the boy. ‘And now this,’ he says, the softness of treacle in his voice. ‘I still say it was not me. Perhaps you misheard. Coal in your ears.’
‘I saw your face,’ says Tom.
‘War is confusing, boy. Messy. You were frightened. It was dark.’
‘I saw your face.’
Patience can see the pulse of a vein in Sidrach’s temple. His hands, gripping the arms of his chair, are white-knuckled and red-veined.
‘Let us say,’ he says, ‘that it was me. Which I do not admit. But if it was. Would your dear mother, God bless her, want you to take this sin on your shoulders? Want you hanged for a murderer? No, dear boy. She would want you to untie me. For me to see about getting you some schooling. A clever boy like you, Tom. School, not a noose.’
‘She would want vengeance,’ says Tom. He says it with force, as if trying to convince himself.
‘No, Tom. Do you know what mothers want more than anything? For their children to be safe. Are you safe now, Tom? Is this little scene making you safe?’
Tom begins to pace. He prowls the small kitchen, stopping by the window and turning to Sidrach. The grey light stealing through the glass leaches the colour from his face. She can see the old man he will become, when life has battered him even more thoroughly.
‘I have thought of nothing else for all these years,’ he says. ‘Thought of pushing the knife into your throat. Thought of hearing you beg.’
Sidrach swallows hard. She watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. His voice when it comes is even and calm.
‘Come, Tom. Change your mind. We can make this better. Let me go. I will not hurt you.’
Tom looks straight at Patience, as if she has an answer. Do not trust him. Do not trust him. She is a coward; she cannot say the words aloud. She screams them in her head. Do not trust him.
The boy walks behind Sidrach. She thinks he is moving to untie the ropes. Lord, Sidrach will spring up. He will kill them both. She can feel herself shrinking into her seat. But then she realizes that he is not untying the knots. He has wrapped a rag around Sidrach’s mouth, forcing it between his lips and pulling it tight. Sidrach can no longer speak. His eyes are wild. Sweat bursts from his forehead.
What is Sidrach with no voice?
He erupts suddenly. Rocking and shuffling in his bonds. He lets loose a series of high, grunting protests. Patience closes her eyes. She counts downwards in threes from a hundred and one. Will taught her to count backwards as a child, to get to sleep. Concentrating on something just hard enough to block out the world outside. Eighty-six. Eighty-three. Eighty.
She opens her eyes. Sidrach is still. He is looking with rabid intensity towards Tom. The boy is slumped forward, with his head cradled on his arms. She sees, to her astonishment, that he is asleep.
The knife lies on the table between the three of them.
It has slipped from Tom’s grasp. His clenched fist has opened. His head rests on arms that lie limply on the table. Oh, the pity of those thin little limbs and the sharp angles of his shoulder bones. Asleep, his mouth has slackened. His breath whispers in the silence of the room.
She wonders how he can possibly sleep. But he is young. The febrile intensity of the night up to this point has hollowed him out, it seems.
It feels like a lifetime since she was childish enough to slip quickly from the world into dreams.
She wants to reach out and smooth the hair back from his forehead, to tuck the long strands behind his ear. But there is no possibility of movement. It is out of the question.
Tentatively, she attempts to move an arm. Her finger twitches. She is pinned to the chair by fear and indecision. She is not ready, yet, to move her eyes across the table to where her husband sits. Instead, she watches the sleeping boy. Watches the rise and fall of his back. The hair that is caught by each exhaling breath, rising, shivering, falling.
She looks at the whorl of the table. There is flour caught in the deepest groove. White sludge collecting unnoticed in there. Such details have escaped her attention as she bustles here and there.
The knife, oh the irony! The wedding gift. She wears the embroidered sheath at her waist, with a matching purse. Roses and vines and pansies curl around both, picked out in gold thread entwined with red. A bird calls from the centre of each, small and carefully stitched. The knife itself has a steel blade, wickedly sharp.
On this table, she has used the knife to cut. To slice. To pare. To carefully ease the skin off a rabbit. To inch a fillet from a fish. She has pricked its point along the side of a mutton bone, tearing the sinew and releasing the meat. The boy himself has sharpened it, with concentrated precision. He knows how she loves the knife, and he is careful with it.
Or perhaps he knew that he might need it.
A groan breaks the silence. An urgent, look-at-me moan. And another. The rocking, shuffling creak of a chair. She will not look yet. She needs time to think. To decide what to do.
She could do nothing. Sit as still as possible. The chair is hard and cold beneath her buttocks, the edge of it pressing into her thighs. Her back hurts from sitting immobile and hunched over with tense shoulders. Her head is heavy and stupid, raddled with indecision.
If she does nothing, the responsibility will be the boy’s. He will wake and pick up the knife, gripping it tight so that the amber swirls on the shaft press into his palm. It will be up to him what happens next. He might fail at the last minute. Or he might push the knife into her husband’s chest until it finds his heart.
He will be lucky to find such a thing, she thinks. The thought makes her laugh – absurdly, inappropriately. Without thinking, she looks over at her husband to see if he heard her. He hates her frivolity, hates her habit of finding things funny that should be deathly serious. And what could be more deathly serious than this?
He has heard her. Above the rag stretched between his lips to gag him, his eyes are turned on her. Staring, furious.
Fear flutters in her blood. His eyes flick down to the knife, then back to her.
She should pick up the knife, take it behind his back and use it to saw the rope that binds him. She should use that wicked blade on the gag, careful not to score her husband’s skin as she cuts.
The longer she does not do what she should, the more his fury will be directed at her rather than the boy. Would you release a rabid dog from its chains?
There is a third option. She could pick up the knife. She could take the sin from Tom and on to herself. She could push the knife into her husband’s chest, to find whatever tiny sliver of heart he has. The boy has a sort of grace, a sort of innocence, despite – or perhaps because of – all he has suffered in his short life. He will be lost to the devil if he does this thing. So will she.
But she would be free. The devil’s dancer, yes, but free.
She sh
ivers to think of it, watching her husband’s red-rimmed eyes watching her. There is something new in the room; a smell she fails to place at first.
He has pissed himself.
So now there is a further humiliation to spur his rage. She closes her eyes, imagining what will happen if she lets him go, how he will bound from his chair, piss dripping down his leg, fury clenching his hands into fists.
Free. She thinks of Sam, and how it would be if he burst into the room to rescue her. To take away the decision, and pick her up and carry her away. Perhaps this night is her penance for loving him when she is bound to someone else.
He is not coming. It is just her, the boy and her husband. She cannot even pray for guidance. The Lord is not with her in this room. How can He be? At this moment, this great test, she is failing. Her indecision is in itself a turning of her face away from Him. In His light, there is only one decision, and that breaks no commandments, no oaths to her husband. Thou shalt not kill.
No. The Lord is not here with her.
Whatever she decides, she will relive and she will regret. Her husband’s eyes bore into her. Snake eyes; venomous. The boy shifts a little in his sleep; his eyelids begin to tremble.
What should I do? Oh my soul, what should I do?
And the knife still lies on the table between them.
Will pushes the decanter to one side. He watches the slosh of the red wine inside the glass, and feels an answering tremor in his skin.
The house is quiet. Blackberry is at his early-morning lessons with his new tutor, a thin, penniless youth called Stephen Cavendish. Cavendish wants to be a poet, but is stuck teaching Latin to small boys. Will keeps his ears open for sounds of beating. He is not entirely sure that he trusts Cavendish to keep his bitterness hidden.
But for now there is quiet. The only conversation is the unspoken one between Will and the decanter.
I will stop your hand shaking.
You are making my hand shake.
I will soothe your spirits.
You are a false friend.
I will make you forget. I will make you brave.
The Tyrant’s Shadow Page 22
