Ill Will

by Michael Stewart

  ‘I tell you what – I’ll be glad to see the back of rabbit stew,’ she said, as she slopped the discarded offal onto the forest floor.

  ‘Just another week, Emily. Then no more rabbit stew for us. Only sirloins of roast beef, venison, duck and partridge.’

  ‘And cakes.’

  ‘If you like.’

  We talked some more about what we would do with our wealth, until Emily started one of her coughing fits. I didn’t say anything, but secretly my concern deepened. I thought about my namesake again, William Lee. How quickly he had gone from a playful boy to an invalid. And how quickly he had dwindled from that point on, to his grave. I resolved to consult a physician as soon as our plan had come to fruition.

  We were travelling in Jonas’s coach, speeding to his estate. It was Sunday and my axe and knife were secreted in my surtout. I had spent the morning sharpening them, ready for my revenge. We would get Jonas’s worldly goods, then I would gut him like an eel. It was a fine autumn day, red and gold leaves falling in our wake, but Jonas was quiet during the journey and there was a darkness in his eyes that disconcerted me.

  ‘Is everything set?’ I asked.

  He just nodded gravely and stared out of the window at nothing in particular. I had a growing sense of unease, but I tried to push it from my mind. It is a big day, I told myself. He is about to take a life-changing step, one he can never reverse. Of course he must be apprehensive. It’s perfectly natural. In fact, it would be stranger if he were not in this dark mood. But nothing could assuage the knot of foreboding in my gut.

  The coach pulled up outside the front door and we alighted. We went into the dining room. The table was bare, in stark contrast to our previous visit. So, there’s to be no feast, I thought. No matter. Jonas stood beneath the painting of his deceased wife. We stood waiting for him to speak, but he folded his arms and remained silent.

  ‘Are we waiting for someone, sir?’ I enquired.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty,’ he said.

  ‘Is something the matter, sir? I couldn’t help noticing that throughout our journey here, your mood has been somewhat melancholy.’

  He nodded slowly but said nothing. He turned to the portrait and stared up at it.

  ‘I’ve heard that sometimes dark devices show us their light reflection, in order to gain our trust.’

  ‘You confuse me, sir. For sure, your words are riddles.’

  ‘Yesterday I ordered my servants to collect a significant portion of my wealth from the vaults and to box it up in wooden chests, ready for collection. Shortly after they had carried out the task, there was a knock at the door. I wonder if you can guess who the visitor was?’

  I looked at Emily. I could tell from the way she was rubbing the hem of her frock with her thumb and forefinger that she didn’t like where this was going. I didn’t like where this was going either. I tried to retain my composure.

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘It was a man who introduced himself as Dick Taylor, a man with only one hand. He told me how he had lost his other hand, and how he had lost his dear companion, who was murdered in his bed a few weeks ago, while he still slept. A coward’s way of killing a man, I’d say. He told me of my old business partner, Mr Hardwar, and how he had been tortured and mutilated in the office of his Custom House. And how he was left to bleed to death. He also told me about a girl with white-blonde hair, who he knew to be a witch and who was in league with the devil himself. Then he showed me this.’

  He reached into his frock coat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He unravelled it. He held up the wanted notice.

  I felt ice-cold water run through my veins.

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  I looked at Emily again. Her pale face had blanched even paler than before, so that her skin was even whiter than that of the painting of Annabel Bold. I had my knife on me and the sharpened axe. I had come here to rob him, then to butcher him. This Jonas was old, fat and out of shape, he would present no difficulties. I would just have to do the deed sooner rather than later.

  ‘You are nothing more than a thief, a liar and a killer,’ Jonas said, warming to his theme.

  ‘I am the son of Lilith,’ I said. ‘My mother who you drove to her death. Who died under your very roof in the attic above this room. And now I have come back to put right your terrible crime.’

  Jonas raised his eyebrows in surprise. I was getting ready to pounce, when the door to the parlour opened and in walked Mr Bold’s two servants, alongside an officer of the law and Dick Taylor, who was brandishing a pistol with his one remaining hand. They stood next to Jonas Bold beneath the portrait. We were outnumbered five to two. The door we had come through was a good ten yards distance. The lead ball in Dick’s pistol would outrun us. There was a large bay window behind us. That was another possible escape, and the door the men had come through, which led to the parlour, also at least ten yards away. None of these options were particularly hopeful.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ Dick Taylor said, his skull grinning.

  Jonas nodded. ‘So, you’re Lilith’s son. The brat she spent six years grieving over. Why she thought she’d have been able to keep you I don’t know. But I’d heard you’d survived her. Didn’t hear much else – I left your dispatch to Mr Hardwar. He was short of money at the time, put you to work in his kitchens as far as I recollect. I didn’t want to know the details. As long as the problem was sorted. Your father was out of his depth, of course. A bloody tyke from the sticks. I don’t know what hold she had over your father, but he had a special agreement to use her exclusively. That was, until Mr Hardwar got tired of him.’

  ‘How well did you know my mother?’

  ‘Once Mr Earnshaw was out of the picture, your mother became one of my favourites,’ Jonas said. ‘We called her Negro Number Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine times a night. I was sad to see the light die in her eyes. Watching her in this house dwindling by the day. I did what I had to do. Now I’m going to do what I have to do again.’

  We had the table between us and the men. There was no time to think any further. As fast as I could, and using all my strength, I flipped the table over and grabbed Emily, but a shot rang out and as I pulled her down, I saw that she was bleeding.

  No time to go to her aid. I leapt up, brandishing a chair, and threw it across the room at Dick Taylor. It crashed into him, knocking his gun to the floor. The officer now held a pistol, which he fired. I ducked behind the table again, then seeing that the bullet had missed me, I ran from behind the table at the officer, who held his gun towards me. It was a race to get to him before he could take aim. Just as I reached him, holding my knife ready to stab him, he pulled the trigger. But the gun misfired and I plunged the knife into his neck. He went down. I yanked the blade out of his severed windpipe and thrust it deep into his heart. Once, twice, three times. The man crumpled at my feet.

  The two servants just stood there, fixed to the spot as though they had been planted there by Jonas, evidently not fighting men. Dick had reached for his gun and was busy reloading it, but with only one hand it was slow work. I gripped the throat and belly of the axe and ran at him as fast as I could. He was about to pull the trigger, but I grabbed his arm so that he fired the shot at the ceiling. Then, still holding onto it, I held the axe aloft and brought it down with great force, chopping through the meat and bones of his wrist, so that I now held his hand as though it were a glove. I threw it onto the floor, with its fingers still clutching the gun. I plucked the pistol from the hand and held it against Dick’s forehead.

  ‘Please, don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’

  He was kneeling before me, blood pumping from the wound. I fired the pistol into the middle of his forehead. Flesh and bone exploded. I could feel hot spittles of blood freckle my face. The room reeked of gunpowder. He was thrown onto the floor. Next I ran at the servants, who were making their way to the door. I grabbed the first by his hair and plunged the knife between his shoul
der blades. He stopped in his tracks and fell to his knees. I took the knife out and slit the man’s throat. He fell to the floor, blood gurgling from the gash. I lunged at the second servant, who held the door handle in one hand and had the door ajar. I stabbed him in the neck. He cried out, falling against the door and closing it in the process. I stabbed him in the cheek, then in his liver. He fell to the floor. I leapt onto the man and stabbed him indiscriminately in his guts and chest, in his face again. But I was stabbing a corpse, panting with the effort.

  I turned around. The parlour door was open and Jonas had escaped. I ran into the parlour but there was no Jonas. The door that led to the kitchens was also open and I ran over to it. I found Jonas at the back, near the sink, and close to the back door.

  ‘Not so quick,’ I said.

  He turned around, absolute fear in his eyes. He picked up an iron pot and threw it at me, but it was a weak throw and fell short a few feet from where I was standing. He grabbed a meat cleaver that was lying on a wooden board.

  ‘We don’t have to do it this way,’ he said. ‘I want to give you everything I’ve got. Killing a man will bring you no satisfaction, either in this life or the next. There is time for you to save your soul. Give up your weapons and God will forgive you.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said, walking slowly towards him. ‘I don’t want God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘I know people. Important people. Magistrates, judges, lords and politicians. Powerful people. I can get you off. You see if I can’t.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be with your wife, dear, sweet Annie? I only want to give you what you desire,’ I said.

  I lunged at him as he came at me with the cleaver. I slashed at his arm and the knife cut deep. He dropped the cleaver and tried to shield himself with his arms. I threw the knife down, then the axe as well, so that both lay on the kitchen floor. I punched him in the face and the blow knocked him back against the wall. I grabbed him by the hair, forgetting it was a wig, and it came off in my hand. I threw it onto the ground and grabbed him by the few hairs he had left, growing at the back of his head. I smashed his face into the stone top, knocking his teeth out of his head, throwing him onto the floor and pouncing on him. With both thumbs, I gouged out the jellies of his eyes. I put my hands around his throat and squeezed the life out of him. His florid complexion purpled. He stopped struggling and collapsed. I crouched over the corpse, panting like an animal.

  Suddenly, I remembered Emily. I ran back through the kitchen, through the parlour, into the dining room. Emily was on the floor, holding her hands close to her chest, trying to stop the flow of blood from the shot wound. I ran across to her and held her up so that she could breathe more easily.

  ‘Emily, Emily. Can you hear me?’

  Her eyes were open but they had glazed over and were staring at nothing.

  I shook her gently.

  ‘Emily, please, stay with me till I get some help.’

  She looked up at me for the first time. I ripped a sleeve from my shirt and tied it tight around her chest, to staunch the flow of blood. I picked her up in my arms and carried her out of the house, to the coach that was still with horses.

  ‘I’m going to drive us back to the village. I’ll get a physician. He’ll patch you up. You’ll see.’

  I opened the coach door and lay Emily across the seat. As I did, she grabbed hold of my neck. She pulled me towards her.

  ‘My dad . . . My dad . . .’ Her voice was weak and I had to lean in closer to hear what she was saying. ‘He was a bad man, William Lee. He’s gone to hell. Am I going to hell?’

  I shook my head. We’re all going to hell, I wagered. I thought about my mother. Was she going to hell? Aren’t those who take their own lives condemned to the fiery pit? Wasn’t that what Joseph said? Very well, I’d see her then some day.

  ‘You don’t understand. My dad. He did some bad things.’

  ‘I know. You’ve told me. He was a murderer.’

  ‘Worse than that, William. He was worse than that.’

  I stroked her hair. ‘Don’t talk. Rest. We need to get you to the doctor.’

  ‘He didn’t see me, William. I looked at him, but he didn’t see me.’

  She looked deep into my eyes, with a pleading expression. I waited for her to continue but instead she released her grip and was flaccid once more.

  I sat on the cold stone step and wept.

  I railed against the world. I cursed God and I cursed humanity. There was no good in the world, only an ocean fleet of evil. I lay on the floor and beat my head against the stone. I lay there for a long time, unable to move. I’d lost the only person, apart from you, Cathy, that I’d ever really cared about. I’d reneged on my promise to keep her safe from harm, as you reneged on your promise that we would always be together. You said that I was more you than you were yourself. That our souls were made of the same thing. I cursed promises.

  Eventually I became aware of myself again. I stood up and walked back to the coach. I lay Emily neatly across the seat and gently closed her eyes. I wiped away the blood from her face with the pilfered fogle. I shut the coach door. I went back inside the house, past the bodies of the men I’d killed, until I came to Mr Bold’s study. Inside the room were two large wooden chests. I opened the first. It was full to the brim with diamonds, sapphires, rubies and other jewels. I went over to the second: it was stuffed with guineas and gold sovereigns. He must have had his servant fetch them from his vault before encountering Dick Taylor.

  I was a rich man. But what good were my riches now? I sat by the boxes, thinking things through. I owed it to Emily, as well as to myself, to make something of my life. If not, then two people had died in vain, Emily and me.

  I thought back to what Emily had said in the woods, about an education being the key to taking revenge against Wuthering Heights. I would use this wealth to get an education and become a gentleman. I would become an expert in the legal acquisition of personal estates. I would go back to Wuthering Heights and take everything from Hindley. I would not stop until he was completely destroyed. I would destroy his wealth, I would destroy his power, I would crush his spirit, so that death would be a sweet release from his torment. And you, Cathy, why should you have it easy? You might be married, living a life of luxury, but I would come between you and Edgar. I would see to it that your soul would be in constant torment. I would make sure that you would never be happy. Just as you had ensured that I would never be other than cast out and alone.

  I stood up and closed the lids of the chests. I looked at my reflection in the mirror on the wall. I was covered in blood, my forehead was cut open and blood oozed from the wound. My shirt was ripped. I looked more like a beast than a gentleman. But it was easy to change from one thing to another. No man becomes a gentleman through honest toil. There was only ever one way to get money and that was to steal it from those who stole it from others. I would return one day to Wuthering Heights, in tailored garments and in a chaise. Mark my words, Cathy.

  The wooden chests were a great weight and cumbersome to shift. It took a huge amount of effort, but eventually I heaved the first one over to the coach and loaded it up next to Emily’s body. I went back for the second. I had one last look around the house. I went into the study and furtled through the drawers in the desk. There were ledgers and account books. Certificates of purchase and receipts. Above the desk was a shelf, and along this shelf a neat line of black books with dates written on the spines. I pulled the first one out and flicked through it. It was a journal. Each page was headed by a date, underneath which was a short description of the day’s events. To-do lists. Records of stocks and sales. Appointments and meetings of various sorts and short summaries of events. I took another journal from the year before, 1779. I flicked through it. I put it back. I counted through to 1764. The year of my birth.

  With some trepidation, I lay the book on the desk and opened it. More dates. Times. Figures. Meeting with so-and-so. Appointment for this and that. But
then, as I turned the pages, my eyes could hardly believe what they saw. Further on, the journal was a meticulous account of each and every sexual congress during his years on the plantation. Where and when, with whom, how often. ‘Above the wall head’, ‘right hand of the river’, ‘towards the negro ground’. ‘The floor’, ‘north bed foot’, ‘east parlour’. I turned the next page and saw the word ‘Lilith’. I slammed the book shut, afraid of what I might read next. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to know. I thought about my mother. Clothes torn. Held down. A girl not much older than Emily. Men all over. Whip and boot. Crying out. Pleading. Alone. In agony. At least now her pain was over. I took hold of the book and several others and placed them inside the remaining chest. I would learn more of my history. No matter what misery it wrought. Then I dragged the chest out of the building and over to the carriage. I heaved it up next to its partner, untethered the horses, mounted the cab and cracked the whip.

  When I got back to camp, I dug up the money we had buried and put it with the rest of my wealth. I removed the ferns from the entrance to the mantrap we had constructed and placed Emily at the bottom. I scooped up heaps of earth and poured it over her body. I kept doing this until she was buried under the mound of fresh soil. I patted the earth down.

  I looked around at the makeshift camp that had been our home these past few weeks. I dismantled the shelter and took the tree branch that had been used as the main support. I dug out my knife and sharpened one end of the wood, then fixed it into the ground like a stake. I gathered the rest of the branches and twigs and piled them around. I took all of our other possessions, including the blankets that had kept us warm, and Emily’s other dress that she had been saving for a special occasion, and gathered them in a heap around the stake. As I did I noticed a brightly coloured object close to our former shelter. As I got closer I saw that it was the deck of cards, fastened with some string. I untied the deck and shuffled the pack. I took out a joker and placed it on the soft mound where I had buried Emily, then I re-tied the deck and tucked it into my coat pocket. Save them for another day. I had a game I was going to teach Hindley.