Jojo and I raced back to Jean-Bernard and the Reverend, who by now had stopping tussling with one another. Having a chance at last to discuss things, we realised our objectives are one and the same: to save Lisbeth. The good Reverend confessed that for the last day he had believed Lisbeth to be unaware of her true self. Indeed, he and his adopted son are extremely agreeable people. They clearly care a great deal about Lisbeth and fear for her happiness just as much as Jean-Bernard and I.
Unfortunately, Cordwell took off so quickly that we cannot catch up to his carriage. However, knowing that the savage bastard hails from the Grousehill area, we are journeying back to Grousehill as fast as possible.
Reverend Pettigrew and Jojo are close behind us in their carriage. I tried to persuade them that Jean-Bernard and I can handle the situation from here, but their love for Lisbeth is deep and they are desperate to help her.
Grief torments me; I was so close to her and now she is gone, gone to the mercy of a psychopath. I dare not consider what plans he has in store for her. Is he the killer who has been murdering women in and around Grousehill? It seems he must be. How many murderers can there be in one small village? She must be so frightened. My poor Lisbeth. She does not deserve this. She does not deserve any of this. My God, how I miss her.
C.C
*
“You know, that night, when first I saw you running through the woods from that disgusting French man, I thought you the most beautiful woman in the whole world.”
He speaks in a slow, dreamy fashion, his eyes and mind utterly disconnected from reality.
I say nothing. I am not sure if silence is the correct choice when dealing with a madman, but I am anxious to conceal my fear.
He feeds me more bread, makes me sip dirty water. I cough. Water dribbles down my chin. To my dismay, he leans forward and slowly, seductively licks the water off my chin. I yank my head away and his eyes narrow, darken. He whips his hand back and slaps me hard in the face.
Tears spring to my eyes, but I hold them in.
“None of that thank you, Lissssbeth,” he smiles.
“My name is not Lissssbeth,” I say through pursed lips.
His eyebrows rise. He tuts, “The first time we spoke in the graveyard in Grousehill, you told me your name. Now, why would you have lied to me back then?”
Again, I say nothing. There is no sense in trying to reason with this man. It is like trying to reason with a rat.
“We shall arrive back in Grousehill within the day,” he states proudly, stroking my cheek.
I flinch at his touch.
“I have a little cottage in the woods, quite near to that old witch’s hut. When we get there, I shall show you our bedroom and allow you a little rest before we become properly acquainted.”
He grins revealing two rows of brown teeth.
“We shall not stop again. Next time we see one another we shall be home! It is so exciting is it not, dearest?”
I stare darkly at him. He seems either unable to read human emotions or unbothered by my hostility.
He stands, says, “By the way darling, my name is Mortimer. I hope that, in time, you will call me Mort.”
He shuts the door and disappears. The carriages jolts forward and we are moving once more.
I rub my chin against my arm trying to erase every trace of his saliva, and strain my ears, desperate to hear the sound of pursuing carriages, but all I hear are the sorrowful notes of the sky’s tears.
*
Dear Diary,
Still we travel and still we do not see Cordwell’s carriage. Can it be that he does not intend to return to Grousehill? Or is it the case that he is taking a different route to us? Perhaps he knows a faster path or perhaps he intentionally chooses an alternative direction in order to stay out of sight. Whatever the answer, I can only pray that he is intent upon returning to Grousehill, for if he is not, all hope of finding Lisbeth is destroyed.
Having spoken to Reverend Pettigrew upon a brief rest, I am starting to think that there is a chance that Lisbeth may regain her memory and remember at long last what happened. If she were to recall everything and realise how very mistaken she is in her perception of me…goodness - my heart comes alive with joy just to think on it! But, what if she were to recall all and I could not find her! That would be the most tragic thing of all – for Lisbeth to remember our love for one another and never to look upon each other’s faces again. For her to know what came before, what we had, what we have lost and what we could have again, but cannot because she is held captive, hidden from me by the devil.
I cannot stop my tears. Jean-Bernard pretends he cannot see my pain. Poor man. After all he has been through to help me, help us…I owe him so much.
For the first time in three years, there is a chance that I may have her back, body, mind and soul, and yet a daemon in man’s clothing has stolen her from beneath my very nose at the very last second. I may have thought my heart suffered the pain of loss hitherto now, but that was nothing compared to the splicing agony I feel as I contemplate a life without her being her. It is as though my dream as has at last come true only to be snatched away and crushed before it may fully come to pass. Is this the Reaper’s idea of a jest?
To think that she may in this very moment be loving me again. Wanting me. Needing me. Dare I allow myself to think it? Yes, I dare. I love her. And I shall love her until the sun folds in upon itself and the sky is forever blackened. I shall find her. I must. If I cannot find her and know she is safe, I may as well die, for that would be a torture one shade too far.
C.C
CHAPTER 23
HOME SWEET HOME
I wake up sharply. Try to work out how long I have been asleep, how many days I have been trapped in this wooden cage.
At least a day must have passed since he spoke to me; a day that seems a lifetime.
The carriage rumbles to a stop. I listen as Mortimer jumps down, walks towards the carriage door, pauses. The carriage curtains are drawn tightly, possibly to prevent passing travellers from seeing me.
The weather is quiet. I am cold, but not from the temperature. Fighting the shakes, I wait. Why has he stopped outside my door? Why does he stand there prolonging my uncertainty?
Suddenly, I hear a scuffle. A man cries out.
This is my chance! I take a deep breath; scream as loudly as I can. The sound rings in my ears. I scream again and again and again.
Mortimer yanks open the carriage door, lunges towards me and digs his fingers into my throat, “Scream again and I will cut from here,” he points to my lower lip, “to here,” and trails his finger lightly down to my naval, “and then I will force myself upon you whilst you bleed out, and I shall reap immense satisfaction from knowing that you are suffering in a hell pit of agony and shame.”
He tosses my head away. As I fall, I stare past him. Yellow-grey dusk silks the sky. On the ground, head in a pool of blood, lies the Vicar of Grousehill. A memory of Reverend Pettigrew patting the ginger-haired man on the back before we left for Old Firsden springs up.
Mortimer slams the door shut and the carriage begins to move.
Tears blurring, wary of screaming, I silently try to loosen the rope on my wrists and ankles. With surprising ease I slip my ankles out of the bonds; perhaps Mortimer thought it less important to tie my feet together than my wrists. Using my freed feet I attempt to pry the ropes off my wrists but succeed only in tearing the coarse material further into my skin. Wrists raw and burning, I realise there is no sense in continuing. Instead, I stand, head bowed so that I do not hit the ceiling of the carriage. The carriage is not moving fast at all. An idea comes forth. It is my only chance; once he has me secured in his house, all will be lost.
With the thought of him violating me urging me on, I grasp the door handle and push the door open. I waver on the edge, hesitating as the woodland floor rushes past. Think of his slimy tongue, creepy touch, soulless eyes. His gruesome promise of cutting me…
I jump.
; I land on my side in wet, oozing mud. Luckily, the mud softens my landing. Rolling onto my back, I scramble up and run through the woods. Leaves whip my cheeks, branches rake at my skin, thorns bite and scrape.
Déjà vu hits, but this time I am not being pursued by a French man whose one aim is to help me; I am being chased by a sadistic killer whose aims are too terrible to name.
I glance round. Close and cutting the distance between us with long, powerful strides, follows Mortimer at a truly alarming pace.
The wood is densely packed, making progress slow. Weaving in and out of shrubs and trees, avoiding snaking roots and nigh-invisible swamps, leaping over fallen trunks – attempting all of this with my wrists tied together is no mean feat. My balance is thrown. Several times I stumble, almost fall, cry out. I dare not look back, but sense he is horribly close.
I know I have only one option left. Turn and fight.
Stopping, I bend down and snatch up a branch as long and thick as my arm. Facing him, I raise my weapon.
He slows down to a walk, but keeps coming. A smile spreads across his face.
“Keep coming and I will beat you to death,” I shout.
My voice quivers almost as much as my arms and hands, yet I set my face in a scowl.
He grins his rotten grin. Says nothing. Keeps walking, staring straight at me with those soulless eyes.
I take a small step back and raise the branch higher, “I am warning you!”
He halts two metres away. Cracks his knuckles. Grins wickedly.
Abruptly, I realise that he is enjoying this. He is enjoying my fear.
The thought boils my blood. Gripping the branch tighter, I dart forward and strike him across the face.
I see his eyes flash wide with surprise before he falls to the ground.
Dropping the branch, I turn to run but he seizes my ankle and drags me backwards. Falling onto my hands and knees, I dig my nails into the mud, but it is too slippery. Kicking my free leg I connect with his jaw.
He growls but reacts quickly, throwing himself onto my back, wrapping his hands around my neck and yanking me up to stand. I have to co-operate or my neck will snap.
Closing my eyes, I brace for the violence I am sure will come, but instead, Mortimer grabs my chin between his thumb and finger and pulls my face close to his.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers. He is not even breathless.
Slowly, trembling, I open my eyes. His eyes latch onto mine, disconnected and merciless.
“Say ‘sorry Mortimer’ or you know what will happen.”
I want to fight, stand against him, but I am too weak and his grip on my neck is too strong.
“Sorry Mortimer,” I murmur.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he drags me back towards the carriage.
*
Ankles bound again, I lie on the carriage floor, cursing my own weakness. Perhaps if I had acted differently, I would be free at this precise moment.
I think of Charles. My husband. I would give anything to see him, to tell him that I am me again, that I remember everything, that I am sorry, so sorry for what I have put him through over the last three years, that I love him with all my heart.
It is so strange to know the truth.
I am not the eighteen year old daughter of Charles Cutteridge. I am his wife. I am forty years of age, and the letters I wrote to Mama were letters written to myself, for I am a Mama. I was a Mama.
I remember our wedding day, the day Bethan was born, the day I gave birth to Eddie. I remember our happiness, how blessed Charles and I felt, how much in love we were. But now my children: sweet, little Eddie and wild, bright Bethan, are gone. Gone to the Reaper. Taken by the fire that destroyed our house. Burned to death before my very eyes.
I even remember Jean-Bernard. Often, he would visit us, talk of his passion: the mind. For he is a doctor of the mind like Gregory Beard not an evil man with sly intentions.
How very wrong I was. How difficult I made everything.
Tears come, growing more wretched until my whole body is tensing with pain. My poor babies! My poor little lambs. So innocent, so alive before the flames claimed them.
But Charles is still alive. My Charles. My loving, kind, sweet, generous Charles.
Pushing down my misery, I focus on my husband. He is my reason. My reason to survive.
The carriage slows, stops. Mortimer opens the carriage door and drags me out. Pausing, he grips my jaw, brings my face close to his, slowly licks his tongue up my cheek. I hold my breath, try not to react.
With a satisfied grin, he pulls me towards a white cottage in the middle of the woods.
“Home sweet home!” he sings as he opens the front door.
We enter a dark room that smells stale. A single candle burns in the far corner of the room. Something in the back right corner, absorbed by shadows, moves, making me jump.
“Clara, do not be timid. Come and say hello to my new wife, Lisbeth,” says Mortimer firmly.
A young lady in mourning black emerges from the shadows. Her face is marble white, cheeks hollow, shadowed eyes cast to the ground. Red ringlets spiral to her waist. Instantly, I recall her; she is the girl from the graveyard.
“Hello,” I say, forcing a smile.
She nods, but will not meet my eyes.
Mortimer scowls, “As useless and pathetic as a mouse is my daughter.”
She slowly backs away into her dark corner and sits down. My eyes have adjusted to the gloom and I see that she is knitting with slow, heavy movements. I long to speak to her, tell her to run, get help, but can do nothing while Mortimer is present.
“Now for me to carry my darling one into our bedroom!”
Scooping me up in his arms, Mortimer takes me into the only other room in the cottage. Gently, he places me on a hard double mattress and slowly unties my ankles, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Rest now Lisbeth,” he says, “you shall need a lot of energy in the days to come. If you try to get away, you know what I will do to you.”
He locks the door behind him. His threat lingers in the stuffy air. I search the room for weapons. Nothing.
A tiny window, far too small for me to squeeze through, is the only source of light. The night is grey-blue and will soon fall to black. I lie back on the mattress, but I cannot sleep. Terror keeps me alert. Any moment I expect him to enter the room and slide into the bed beside me.
I listen to a bird’s strangled call repeat itself over and over. Listen to the wind moan. Listen to Clara’s cries as Mortimer beats her. The poor girl is scared to death of him, just as I am. But whereas her fight has gone, mine still breathes and pulses.
The girl’s cries turn to quiet sobs.
The front door slams. Mortimer is gone, for now. Where to, I care not. All I hope is that he is gone long enough for me to escape.
Running to the door, I thump on it hard, “Clara! Clara? Can you hear me? Clara?”
There is no response but the wind’s drunken slur.
“Clara!” I shout, louder, more demandingly.
“Hello,” says a voice so quiet I nearly miss it.
“Thank goodness! Clara, listen to me. You need to find the key and unlock this door. Do you understand?”
A pause.
“Clara!”
“I, I cannot do that,” she stammers.
I laugh somewhat hysterically, “What do you mean you cannot do that? Of course you can Clara. If you move quickly, both of us will be out of here before he returns.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot. If he finds me, he will…”
“He will not find you,” I assure her, “I promise you Clara. We will run and hide. It is night. We will take cover and hide until morning. He will not find us.”
“How can you be so sure?” she whispers.
“Because we do not deserve this life Clara. Neither you nor I deserves a life of imprisonment.”
“You may not, but I do. I am useless and weak.
I am pathetic. I deserve to be beaten. I do.”
“Wait one moment Clara. Think. Do you truly believe that? What is the worst thing you have ever done? I bet it is no worse than spilling a jug of water.”
Silence. She is thinking. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she is being forced to question everything that he has encouraged her to believe about herself.
I try a different approach, “Where is your Mother, Clara? What would she say if she saw the conditions in which you are living?”
There is a very long silence. I wait, hoping my words have taken effect.
“My Mother is dead. When we saw you in the graveyard, we were visiting her grave. Mother knew the sort of man he is. When she was alive, she bore his violence, protected me, but now she is gone. He killed her. I saw him do it. He strangled my Mother to death with his bare hands.”
I gasp as the horror and meaning of her story sinks in, “Your Mother was Morna? Morna O’ Floinn?”
Closing my eyes, I think back to the words on the gravestone.
“Yes. How do you know? You cannot possibly have known her. He never let her set foot outside this house in all the twenty years since the night he took her.”
“Took her?” I repeat, a chill seeping into my bones.
“Yes. He stole her from her home in the dead of night when she was eighteen years of age. He took her and did to her exactly what he is doing to you.”
So Morna did not run away as Sorcha O’Floinn believed. Poor Sorcha – for years she thought her daughter gone of her own accord. She thought herself abandoned by her own flesh and blood. I wonder if the truth would at last put Sorcha’s crazed mind at some kind of peace.
“Your poor Mother,” I say.
I hear Clara sob. Not wanting to lose her, I say, “Having witnessed your Mother’s suffering and having seen your Father’s cruelty, can you not then acknowledge that you need to escape this place, escape him?”
She sniffs, coughs, “Perhaps.”
Blackened Cottage Page 17
