Another step. This time I can tell he is moving towards the foot of the ladder, towards me. I fight the urge to scream, to hurl insults at him, to scream that he is insane, that I want nothing to do with him.
“Lissssbeth. The other night, I was so close to having you, so close and yet so far then that bastard Reverend fired a gun – where he got that I do not know nor care, but it was enough to make me drop you and then that little nigger whisked you away. Of course, I enjoyed pummelling my fists into that bald bastard’s face and would have continued until he lay sprawled upon the ground dead if it had not been for those interfering villagers who came out of the woodwork like mincing worms and forced me to leave him alive and breathing. Having your body resting upon my shoulder was a magical sensation and one I long to repeat. Indeed, my heat is rising just thinking on it. Your smell too. So honey sweet, bewitching. I cannot wait to wrap my fingers around your throat, thrust into you, possess you, fill you with my desire. You are my heart’s desire and once I have you I shall never let you go. Ah – just envisaging your naked form beneath me - ah, I must sate this burning need. God forgive me.”
I hear him pull down his trousers. He begins to moan and I know what he is doing. Silently, I cover my ears with my hands, willing it to stop, willing him to go away.
Finally, he finds his release and I hear him fall to the floor.
“Lisssbeth, Lissssbeth…sweet Lissssbeth,” he whispers.
To my surprise, he does not climb the ladder but walks away. I hear the barn door open and close softly. He is gone.
I lie as still as before, fervently hoping I am not imagining that he has just left the barn. Can it be that he never knew I was here? Or is he playing a nasty trick? Will he return in a few minutes and steal me away?
With thudding heart, I wait for the sound of his return, for the hiss of his voice as he caresses my name with his foul tongue. I wait and wait, but he does not return.
Gradually, my heart slows and I allow myself to believe the impossible: he is gone. I feel almost winded by relief.
Moments later, the door opens and I am all tension and fear again. Confident footsteps head straight for the ladder, ascending fast. I brace myself, unable to tear my eyes from the top of the ladder, and see a black hand on the top rung.
Jojo! I immediately erupt with tears. Jojo drops the loaf and bucket he is carrying and rushes to my side. Through my sobs I tell him what happened.
CHAPTER 20
ESCAPE
Three more days and nights, Jojo attends my every need, ferrying supplies to and from the barn at the least conspicuous times of the day, cleaning and feeding me.
Finally, I wake for the first time with no desire to give up. My throat still hurts but the pain is bearable compared to before. My head aches somewhat and my body is drained, but I am able to stand, walk and tend to my own needs.
Jojo wakes to discover me washed and dressed. His eyes widen in surprise.
“Thank you so much Jojo,” I say wrapping my arms around his neck.
We embrace one another for a moment. I can smell his musky body odour. It is a rather pleasant smell. Warm, manly, true.
Jojo pulls away awkwardly and straightens his shirt.
“Has Reverend Pettigrew visited me?” I ask.
He nods. Clearly I slept through the good Reverend's visits. I am pleased to hear that he is still in the village. I half-expected him to have left for the next village in which he was scheduled to preach.
My thoughts turn to Father and Jean-Bernard and the crazy man who tried to kidnap me. I wonder where they are. Are they in Little Mersham? And if so, how will we evade them when we leave in the carriage?
Now that I am better, the need to leave becomes my focus. I must depart soon. I must get to London, to Eddie. There is no time to delay.
Wrapping a blanket about my shoulders, I walk to the ladder, climb down, pace up and down the centre of the barn scuffing strands of straw with my foot.
“I am fit to travel,” I say as Jojo descends the ladder.
He nods, smiles.
“Do you think you could tell Reverend Pettigrew and perhaps bring the carriage out here so we may avoid prying eyes?”
Jojo nods again, turns sharply and leaves the barn.
I lean against a bale of straw, resting. Descending the ladder has delivered an unprecedented assault upon my fragile system. With the blanket wrapped around me, I am not too cold. I walk to the barn door, slip out into the silvery dawn.
The air, fresh-cut with spring, enlivens my deadened senses. Daffodils beam up at me, the brightest of yellows. Gloriously alive. Grass the colour of limes spikes out of the ground, healthy and new, shining at the speck of sun on the horizon.
In the distance stands the white church, partly hidden by pale pink cherry blossoms, and a line of small white cottages. A pretty picture. My fingers itch for charcoal and parchment.
Suddenly, Adam, Eve and the carriage appear from between the church and a cottage. Straining my eyes, I see that both Jojo and Reverend Pettigrew are seated in front. Excitement flickers: I did not dream we would be able to get on our way so quickly. But this pleasure is short-lived; racing behind them is another horse-drawn carriage.
Father and Jean-Bernard must have been lying in wait, watching, biding their time. Perhaps they spied the Reverend in the village and, knowing he was my friend, kept a closer eye upon him than anyone, watching and waiting until the moment was right.
“Hurry! Hurry!” I scream.
Jojo's head whips around. He sees what I see; a carriage following at threatening speed. He faces front, head ducked low over the reins. Reverend Pettigrew mimics Jojo's posture, head bowed over the reins urging Adam and Eve to move faster.
I look back at the barn, hastily move away so that I am in line with the carriage.
Steeling myself, I stand ready. The two carriages are like two two-headed bulls charging towards me. So fast, so solid. The earth shakes and the air vibrates around me. My ears are crushed, my heart pounding hard, black, too big for this frail chest.
Adam and Eve are almost upon me, deafeningly close, yet they show no sign of slowing down. I look right and left, unsure what to do, see Jojo leaning out of his seat, arm extended towards me.
“Jump Lisbeth!” the Reverend bellows.
I have no time to contemplate the peril involved; the carriage is upon me; I am reaching up, grabbing hold of Jojo's arm, clinging on with every ounce of strength. The momentum snaps my neck back. Ice wind slaps my face, buries into my pores.
Somehow, with acute precision, Jojo hoists me up onto his lap.
My legs dangle over the side buffeted by the merciless wind. I drag them up, awkwardly swivel, squeeze in between Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo.
Jojo's breathing is ragged, yet he seizes hold of Eve's reins and thrashes them down, urging her on.
I glance back. The pursuing carriage is not far behind, perhaps twenty yards: two brown horses directed by the relentless hands of...Father and Jean-Bernard!
“Lisbeth! Stop!” shouts Jean-Bernard, his voice crushed by the wind yet audible in its ferocity.
I turn to face front, heart pounding. Up ahead stands a spear-topped fence of about waist height.
“Reverend, can Adam and Eve make it?” I ask.
Reverend Pettigrew glances at me grimly, “We can only pray...hold on!”
I grasp the seat. Jojo and the Reverend grip the reins. The fence looms: tall and strong, a fierce barrier. If Adam and Eve run into it they will almost certainly damage their legs and we will be doomed. Our only chance is to jump.
Either side, a blur of green. We are travelling at a pace I never believed possible.
“Hold on!” grits the Reverend.
I force myself to keep watching, suddenly remember the carriage attached to us – how will the carriage leap the fence too?
Then we are jolted backwards as the horses rear up, fly into the air. My back smashes against the wooden seat. Adam and Eve clear the fence, p
ound into the ground, tipping us forward, and the carriage smashes into the fence with an ear-splitting crunch. Remarkably, the carriage sails through after us, rending the fence destroyed; splintered pieces of wood splayed all over the ground. Are the front wheels of the carriage damaged?
Jojo passes me Eve's reins, shows me how to yield them. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn, kneel on the seat, lean over inspecting the damage. He exhales, eyes expressing relief, takes the reins back, and shakes his head at Reverend Pettigrew. No the front wheels are not affected, but the horses are waning.
I look back. Jean-Bernard's carriage glides through the wreckage with ease. They are gaining on us.
“Reverend?” I say.
He shrugs, “We shall keep going for as long as possible. Adam and Eve are tiring, but they will go on a while. There is nothing our pursuers can do if we continue to move.”
“How much longer do you think Adam and Eve will last?”
“Twenty minutes. Thirty at most.”
We reach a road, pass a sign: London 4 miles. Thankfully, we are on the right track. If we can make it to London before the horses collapse, perhaps we can disappear among a throng of people.
“Ya! Ya!” bellows the Reverend.
Somehow, Adam and Eve find more energy and up their pace.
Jean-Bernard's carriage maintains frightening closeness.
“Lisbeth! Stop! We must talk!” shouts Father.
Ignoring him I dig my fingers into my knees, willing the horses to keep going.
One of Jean-Bernard's horses neighs loudly. I swivel, stare, eyes alert.
The horse on the right is slowing down, its front leg moving strangely as though broken or twisted. Its fellow is also slowing. Jean-Bernard whips the horses angrily, frantically urging them to speed up, but they continue to slow down. Father curses, face red. The two horses slow to a reluctant walk. Nothing Jean-Bernard does will encourage them to increase their pace.
Luck is on our side. With one injured horse, and both refusing to co-operate, they do not stand a single chance of catching us. Jojo catches my eye and winks. I wink back and smile at the good Reverend who exhales a whistle of relief.
We gallop on, making good speed. Soon, Father, Jean-Bernard and their lame horse are nothing but a smudge of darkness in the distance. However, Adam and Eve are beginning to tire.
Two miles remain until we reach London, but we must stop and allow our courageous friends to rest. Jojo feeds and waters them while the Reverend paces back and forth beside the carriage.
“Are you okay?” I ask, rubbing the small of my back.
I watch him closely. His eye is bruised, probably from fighting the man who tried to kidnap me.
He chuckles, but his face is pale, his eyes shadowed, “I shall live! Do not worry dear Lisbeth, I am not as old and decrepit as I look. I am just a little shocked by recent events. Besides, it is not me whom you should be worried about. How are you feeling?”
I shrug, “Drained, anxious. I just hope we can get to London and find Eddie before they catch up with us.”
Reverend Pettigrew pats my shoulder in his fatherly way, “We have not far to travel now. Rest assured, Jojo and I shall get you there in the end.”
I begin to voice my gratitude, but the good Reverend puts a gentle finger to my lips, “There truly is no need to thank me Lisbeth, no need.”
A moment passes. Neither of us wants to mention the man with grey hair. The man who tried to kidnap me.
Suddenly, the Reverend throws his arms around my shoulders, hugging me so tightly that I can hardly breathe.
“Let it go, let it all out,” he murmurs into my hair.
Jojo walks over, freezes, turns and walks back to the horses.
“Let it go,” he repeats.
But I cannot. Silent tears roll down my cheeks, but I cannot give in to the storm inside, to the turmoil of confusion, terror, despair.
I pull away. Inhale sharply. Exhale slowly, shakily, “I will. One day. One day, when all of this madness ends and I feel like me again.”
*
Dear Mama,
I hope you are well and that you received my last letter. Again, I am sorry for not writing earlier, but much has happened. It seems my life is a never-ending tale of misadventure and peril, but at least I do not have to go it alone; Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo are forever at my side, my protector and guardian angel, and I am well again. Weak but well.
Father and Jean-Bernard pursue me still. They will not cease until they have me under lock and key. But we have escaped them again and are close upon arrival in London. When we get there we shall ask for directions to the school where I hope to find little Eddie.
I long to see him, but must confess that conjuring up his image is growing increasingly difficult. Even yours and Bethan's faces are becoming mysterious shadows. I do not doubt you of course, but I cannot acquire a concrete sense of when I last laid eyes upon you. It is the same with Bethan and Eddie. Somehow, to think that I held Eddie in my arms only a month past feels unreal. Nor does it strike true that quite recently Bethan and I engaged in lively converse in the back garden of Blackened Cottage. Of course, memories of that dark place are writ into my brain with the unswerving permanency of words upon a gravestone.
Oh dear, I must sound ever so dreary. I apologise for the morose tone of this letter. When next I write, I hope to be in lighter spirits.
Lisbeth
*
“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.
I have committed the sin of violence against a child of god And, I regret to admit, I rather enjoyed it. I delighted in pounding my fist into that bald preacher’s wrinkled face. I truly did. I savoured the knowledge that I was more powerful than he, that my hand could render him weak as a child with such incredible ease.
I know that I should not enjoy acts such as these, but I cannot help this innate urge to disobey the will of Christ. This urge lives and swells within my breast; it is an ever-thrusting urge that shall ne’er be crushed.
Now, I venture south to find her. Again I find myself following Cutteridge and his French man, for it is they who shall lead me direct to her.
I had her in my hands. So close was I to journeying home with her by my side, but I am not angry. In truth, I relish the chase. Sooner or later I shall have her. Such a rare gem is she that I know the end shall satisfy the means.
I fear I may have confessed more than I ought, but it does feel good to offload these troubles upon a non-judgemental ear.
I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all of my sins against harmony.”
CHAPTER 21
A WEIGHTY SUGGESTION
Dear Diary,
It grieves me to confess that once again I am unable to deliver good news.
She evades us at every turn. Every time we reach out to grab her, some idiotic fool interferes. We were so close this morn, but one of the horses fell lame. Now she has an enormous advantage. We may know her destination, but in order to ambush her we must get to the school before she does. Indeed, things are not so simple as they first appear.
Somehow, she has acquired firm allies, allies who seem willing to fight tooth and nail to protect her. They are ostensibly weak, this old preacher and black boy, but while they remain present, it seems impossible to obtain her.
I can guess what ridiculous tales she has told them. Thus it is no wonder that they wish to guard her from us. Perhaps if I were to speak with the preacher, he might see sense and let us have her.
Jean-Bernard is attempting to find a new horse. When he succeeds we shall be on our way. The journey to London is not far. Let us hope we reach the school first.
C.C
*
“We shall head straight to Gregory’s house. His investigative powers are infamous. If anyone can find out where St Peter’s Boarding School College resides, Gregory can.”
I tear my eyes from the hustle and bustle of London;
from carriages overloaded with people and luggage, some two decks high, every passenger crammed in, suited and booted, raising his or her voice over the next person, desperate to be heard; pedestrians in their hundreds milling about in fine suits and top hats, dashing across the road at the very last second, surviving a flattening by the skin of their teeth; sophisticated women in full skirts, heads high, gossiping about the latest fashion trend; ragged children ripping through the traffic of people, snatching purses, waving them high in triumph as soon as they round the nearest corner.
Clearing my throat, I look back at Reverend Pettigrew, “Is Gregory the psychiatrist of whom you spoke?”
“Yes, indeed he his. I thought whilst we were with him he could treat you. That is, of course, if you are in favour of the idea?”
I pause. Mull it over. Lean forward, “Anything that may help me regain my memory is certainly something I would like to try. However, time is a pressing issue. I fear that if we do not move quickly, Father and Jean-Bernard may arrive at the school before us.”
The Reverend nods wisely. Scratches his nose, “I see what you mean, but I really feel that a meeting with Gregory will be most beneficial.”
I do not wish to sound disagreeable so I nod and return my attention to the street. The carriage rounds a corner, enters a quiet road.
The atmosphere is remarkably different; no-one walks the street, the stench of sewage is ripe and the houses are smaller, jammed together with total disregard for privacy. In the windows, which are often cracked, the curtains are mould-eaten and torn. From the houses emerge unsettling sounds of babies screaming, women caterwauling, men cursing, objects breaking.
I am glad when we turn into a more upmarket road called George Street. Here the houses are still closely networked, but in a fine condition; standing proudly with uniform pale yellow walls, unpeeling doors, shiny brass knockers and casement windows. But everything seems so man-made. Nature seems not to exist in this place.
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