Seeker, The

by Brindle, J. T.

  Later, he was in no doubt that she had deliberately bewitched him. When the rush of pleasure was over, she had begged him to help her escape. When he refused, she turned on him like a wildcat, tearing at him with sharp, jagged nails and leaving him with scars he carried to this very day. Worst of all, she had spat out a terrible curse on him and his family.

  Within hours of ending his shift, he was stricken with a mysterious fever which raged for days and kept him at death’s door. His wife, too, contracted the illness. He survived. She did not. In his heart he knew it was Rebecca Norman’s curse, but he dared not voice his suspicions for fear of punishment. Guards had been severely reprimanded, badly punished, and even dismissed for fornicating with an inmate. These days, a man in his work was more secure than he used to be – trade unionism had come a long way since the leader of the shepherds’ strike was given five hundred lashes for daring to demand higher wages. Even so, a man had to be wary, observe certain rules, and sleeping with prisoners was only inviting trouble. It went on, ’course it did, even to this day, but always with the utmost discretion. Now, once more he had a woman to call his own, again not pretty, but homely and eager to please him in every way. He had learned his lesson the hard way.

  Sneaking a look at his young, handsome colleague, he hoped history was not about to repeat itself. ‘I’m not one to give advice as a rule,’ he told him, ‘but, where she’s concerned, I’m telling you for your own good. She’s every bit as bad as they say. There! I’ve warned you, matey. The rest is up to you.’

  He had seen how Rebecca Norman looked at Ralph; and he was afraid. But he was not his brother’s keeper. All he could do was warn of the dangers. This he had done. Somehow, though, he didn’t believe his warning would make any difference. Looking at Ralph now, at the glint in his dark eyes, he believed it was already too late.

  The day’s work was done. Like the wail of a banshee the weird lament of the siren pierced the air, telling one and all that prisoners should now be secure under lock and key. It was the moment when warders gave a sigh of relief, and convicts began to shuffle under guard to the dank, dismal cells where they would remain, incarcerated, until the grey light of morning, when the long, monotonous day would begin again.

  ‘Move along, move along!’ The older guard, the one they called Jacob, cracked the bullwhip behind the line of convicts, urging them on, defying them to stumble, wishing they would. As they edged forward, up the steps and along the darkened, narrow corridor, the stench of damp, oozing flesh was rancid.

  Bringing up the rear, Ralph Ryan kept his eyes skinned and his every nerve-ending on edge. He had reluctantly accepted the temporary transfer from the lunatic asylum to Her Majesty’s Prison; the pay was better for working shifts, and what with Maria fat with their new child, every extra penny came in handy. Besides, he had been given little choice in the matter. When men went down ill at either establishment, it was common practice to make temporary transfers of staff from one to the other. Still, he hoped it would not be for much longer. Demanding though it was, he preferred his job at the asylum.

  Still, he had accepted this temporary transfer knowing all the risks. If he should falter in his judgement, or betray any sign of weakness, then his credibility would be dangerously undermined. There were desperate men here, wicked creatures of the worst order – although there were others whose severe punishment did not fit the paltry crimes committed. Sadly, once a man of lesser crime was sent to this place, his character could change overnight; he would grow bitter and resentful, aching with revenge, and more often than not he would become a more dangerous animal than his hitherto more violent counterpart. Ralph Ryan knew this and as he ushered the convicts to their cells, his expression was grim, his manner unbending.

  Realising the strength and iron-like determination of their guards, and always wary of the penal back-up system that was there to crush them, the convicts went quietly, if grudgingly, to their cells.

  Rebecca Norman, though, had a message to impart. Being one of only two females left wasting in Fremantle Prison, she was spared the overcrowding and the fraught atmosphere to which the men were subjected. Instead, she and the old hag were assigned to a cell whose small iron-barred window looked out over the cobbled courtyard. It was a bleak area all the same, surrounded by high walls, and seeming always to be immersed in shadows, even on the brightest day. Strangely, the song of birds was never heard in this part of the yard.

  Now, as she filed past him, following the old hag into the cell, Rebecca Norman deliberately and deviously brushed against the young guard, sending a shock through every corner of his being. When he made a slight gasp, instinctively drawing back, her wide dark eyes searched him out, smiling, delving deep into his soul. In the moment before he swung the heavy cell door into place, her whisper bathed his ears, causing him to tremble. ‘Tonight… in the dark hours I’ll be waiting.’ Her voice was soft, enticing as a summer’s breeze. It haunted him.

  As he walked away, he could hear her laughter. Suddenly she was quiet and the old hag’s voice could be heard taunting her. ‘Want him, d’you? Want to squeeze him dry, d’you? Think he’ll be the one to set you free from this ’ere cage, is that it?’ Her laughter was cruel.

  The old one’s voice dipped low, out of Ralph’s earshot. ‘You’ll never be free, dearie! D’you hear me? You’ll never again see the light o’ day. You’ll grow old like me… old and ugly. Nobody’s gonna want you then, are they? Think on that, me beauty. You’re stuck here till the end of your days, just like me. But then it’s no more than you deserve. They say as how you helped kill some poor unfortunate! There’s also them as say you’re a witch.’

  Incensed but incredibly calm, Rebecca walked towards her, her eyes opaque and deadly, like the shark’s. She made no sound.

  Outside in the corridor, Ralph listened. The silence was unnerving. Suddenly the old hag screamed out. There was terror in her voice. ‘Get away from me! Dear God above, help me. Somebody help me!’

  Her cries went ignored. It wasn’t the first time she had raised the alarm in such a way. In their cells the prisoners settled down, stretching out on the narrow iron beds, exhausted and miserable. The guards went about their duties, checking the inmates, logging the events of the day and making preparations for the changeover of the shift.

  After a while, the old woman was silent. The sound of snoring began to infiltrate the claustrophobic corridors. Soon the remaining daylight would be swallowed up, darkness would creep over the land and all would be still – save for those tortured souls who dreamed of home, and love, and freedom. And one particular soul that craved only revenge, a terrible and exacting revenge, the like of which filled her every waking moment. Rebecca Norman had not forgotten how they had burned her grandmother; nor how they had sentenced her to this dismal place. She had not forgotten that. Neither had she forgotten him. Nor had she forgiven. She never would.

  The sounds that echoed along the corridors were familiar. Hushed voices, jangling keys and smart, hurried footsteps. The guards were changing shift. As he left the building, Ralph bade the duty officer goodnight. Strange, he mused, how his voice and manner were so normal, even while his insides were fluttering like so many butterflies. She had got to him, the black-eyed beauty, and – try as he might – he could not thrust her from his mind.

  Outside, he paused a while, drawing in long, refreshing gulps of unsullied night air. The tang of salt was carried on the freshening wind. It tasted good. Filling his lungs and mentally dismissing the dark, clinging atmosphere of the prison, Ralph Ryan lingered a moment, his sharp, busy mind assessing the day’s events. Today the prison had been every bit as suffocating as every day in the previous two weeks, but uniquely satisfying also. He felt right in his prison warder’s uniform. It stamped him with a degree of authority. He liked that. Also, to his surprise, he had discovered a certain awareness in himself, a kind of quiet respect for some of the milder-mannered convicts. Like almost every other citizen in Fremantle, he had entertained smal
l regard for the convicts on the hill. They had earned imprisonment. There were few feelings of mercy or compassion for these hapless creatures. From many quarters was nurtured a measure of deep resentment towards them. This bitterness went back a long way, some thirty years or more. During the period from 1850 to 1868, nearly ten thousand convicts were transported from Britain to Western Australia, a considerable number arriving in Fremantle itself. Cheap labour for a young and growing colony, they were employed on the ships and on the land, loading and off-loading cargo, constructing new roads and erecting new buildings; even raising their own places of incarceration. Now, some twelve years after the last incoming shipment of convicts, many of these unfortunates had earned tickets-of-leave, and even pardons. Most had settled in Fremantle; some had moved on to make a new start elsewhere. Others, like Rebecca Norman, had constantly rebelled against the system, consequently lengthening their years in custody, and ultimately jeopardising the day of their release.

  ‘Can’t wait to get home and out o’ these bloody trousers!’ came the older warden’s voice. ‘Like bleedin’ strait-jackets, they are!’ He ambled past, still fidgeting with the crotch of his trousers. ‘G’night,’ he called.

  ‘G’night.’

  Beset by sharper and more tantalising images of Rebecca Norman, Ralph headed homeward. As he followed the route along by the tramway and on down William Street, he found himself smiling at the words she had murmured to him… ‘Tonight… in the dark hours. I’ll be waiting.’ Did she really believe he could be tempted? The smile slid from his face when back came his own answer. He was stirred by her, by the way she sensuously brushed against him, and by the enchanting look in her sultry eyes.

  Deeply disturbed, he quickened his step. The night was closing in, hot and humid, sucking a man’s resistance. The sweat trickled down his back, melting the shirt to his skin. Agitated, he loosened the neck of his shirt and nervously glanced about. This week he was working an eight-hour shift, two p.m. until ten p.m. Normally, at this hour of night people were still walking the streets, younger ones making for the coolness of the beach, more senior citizens hurrying home, ready for their beds. Tonight, though, the streets were deserted. The quietness and absence of other living souls heightened his pensive mood.

  As he turned into the High Street, the sound of a woman’s laughter startled him. He slewed round. There was no one to be seen. Swallowing hard, he went on his way, his footsteps pushing faster and faster until they were almost running. Down the High Street and into Henry Street, towards South Bay and the tiny terraced house that was home to him, his wife Maria and their three-year-old daughter, Agatha. Soon there would be another child. A son, maybe? The thought of his family had a sobering effect on him, lightening his heart and causing him to smile. ‘Pull yourself together, you bloody fool, Ryan,’ he said through clenched teeth. The older warden’s words came to mind and he laughed aloud. ‘Happen your trousers are too tight an’ all… squeezing what little sense you have.’ The thought had not occurred to him before, but suddenly he tugged at the crotch of his pants and felt the better for it.

  Hurrying along Henry Street, his quiet gaze scouring ahead, Ralph let out a delighted chuckle when he saw the familiar figure of Maria silhouetted at the door. At this late hour he was surprised to see little Agatha there, a fidgeting, laughing bundle who, until now, was restrained by her mammy’s hand.

  The child rushed forward on seeing Ralph, her little legs running fast, until, with a whoop of joy, she was caught in her daddy’s arms and flung high in the air. Maria watched from the doorway, her own delight obvious in the wide smile that shaped her pretty face.

  ‘You’re late, sweetheart.’ Maria looked up at his weary face. ‘Tired?’ Her love for this man shone from her eyes.

  He nodded his head, wincing when the excited child bit into his ear. ‘Hey! Haven’t you had your dinner yet?’ he cried laughingly as he gently put her to the ground.

  ‘We waited for you,’ Maria explained.

  Placing his hands on her small shoulders, he gazed down at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said simply, ‘I was a bit late getting away.’ How could he explain why he was reluctant to leave his place of work? Maria wouldn’t understand how Rebecca Norman’s eyes had touched his soul.

  ‘Well, you’re home now,’ she said, reaching her face up to him.

  When in a moment Ralph bent his head to kiss her, she made no mention of the feeling of dread which had invaded her day – a strange, lonely kind of feeling that even now, with his homecoming, had not altogether left her. Her need to confide in him was strong. She resisted. There would be time enough later, she told herself. Her man was home, no doubt eager to relay news of his day at the prison.

  Unhurried and with remarkable calmness, Maria set about fetching the meal to the table while, with his jubilant daughter hanging on his coat tails, Ralph went into the scullery, where he took off his jacket and peaked cap before washing his hands and returning to the tiny parlour.

  It was a cosy room, with an open fire-range that was daily polished to a high shine. From the picture rail hung many small portraits of long-departed relatives. There were numerous brass artefacts lovingly placed around the room – a trivet in the hearth, a jardinière on the small oak sideboard, two matching candlesticks on the mantelpiece and a marvellous old oil lamp standing proud in the centre of the table. The sideboard and table were constructed in the same light-coloured oak, its texture mellowed warm by Maria’s daily polishing; the sideboard was no more than four feet long, with a centre run of three deep drawers which were flanked either side by a spacious cupboard. The three drawer fronts and the cupboards sported sturdy wooden knobs, large and perfectly spherical in form. The table was also circular, small, but boasting the same handsome wood and reflecting the same loving care. It had one central leg, a thick bulbous thing which spread out at the base like the webbed feet of many frogs. For most of the time its surface was covered in a heavy green tablecloth, but for meal times, like now, the cloth was folded away and replaced by a pretty pink gingham square.

  The only other furniture in this tiny parlour consisted of four straight-backed dining chairs positioned round the table, and two beech rocking chairs, one either side of the fireplace, each dressed in deep, squashy cushions. Over by the window stood a narrow table with tall legs and a lower shelf containing bric-à-brac; situated on its upper surface was a magnificent pair of brown and white pot dogs. These were Maria’s pride and joy. The window was bedecked with fine lace curtains and many bright coloured flowers, springing from the numerous brass plant pots. The view from the window swept towards the beach and, by straining her neck whilst squashing her face close to the windowpane, Maria could just see the South Bay and the jetty there.

  ‘It’s good to be home.’ Ralph settled his long, lithe figure into the chair, the child clambered on to his knee and his warm, brown eyes observed Maria’s every movement. When she paused in her task to smile at him, his heart leapt; it had always been that way – the very first thing that had attracted him to her was her lovely shy smile. They first met on the steps of St John’s church. Later, their paths crossed again and he was bold enough to speak. Having each lost their closest relatives – any other still alive were not of these shores and consequently not known to them – a bond soon formed, love blossomed and marriage followed. Neither had ever regretted it and they were as much in love now as on their wedding day.

  ‘Will you be glad when they no longer need you at the prison?’ Maria dished out the broth, its warm, delicious aroma filling the room and making Ralph realise just how hungry he was. ‘Come away from your father now, child,’ Maria told little Agatha, at the same time pulling out a chair and pointing to it. ‘Come and sit here,’ she said, waiting for the child to scramble from its father’s knee and climb obediently into the chair indicated. Shaking her head, Maria explained how the child ‘has been restless all day’ – much like myself, she thought curiously. When all were ready, a short thanksgiving was uttered by Ralph, a
fter which they began their meal. Presently, Maria’s question was answered when Ralph admitted that although he had suffered certain qualms about serving as a warder at the prison, he was now convinced that the experience was most useful. He was very careful not to mention the name of Rebecca Norman.

  Throughout the meal of broth, cheese and newly baked bread, he remained unusually quiet, not unaware of his wife’s curious glances, and acutely conscious of the excited feelings alive in him – excited not by his own adored Maria, but by another, a woman some six years his senior, a woman whose reputation was of the worst possible kind – sinister and evil, a convict, by all accounts destined to end her days behind bars or, worse, on the gallows.

  Rebecca Norman was all of these things and yet, and yet… He hardly dared let loose his thoughts. All the same, he could not deny her magnificence, nor that beguiling way in which she had come to him, laughing at him, bewitching him with her persuasive eyes and silvery tongue. He recalled Jacob’s warning, and though his every instinct told him to be wary of her, he indulged instead in the pleasure she stirred in him. He felt strangely uplifted, outside of himself… like a man drowning.