Wickedness

by Deborah White

  “But he does. He has it.”

  “Yes, but the police have got him. They won’t let him go. You saw what he was like. Insane. Dangerous.”

  Claire felt a momentary surge of confidence that quickly ebbed away as she saw Zacharie’s expression. Saw the shrug and heard him say, “Oh, cela arrive tout le temps. It happens all the time. Murderers, rapists – released because of some technicality. Or because some ‘psychologist’ believes that they’ve changed. And besides, he has power. Power we can only guess at. Do you think the police will be able to hold him? Do you? Really? No, the only way you will be safe is if he is dead.”

  “But he’s not dead is he?”

  “No, but he will be. We can make sure of that.”

  * * *

  “Tea! Toast!” Emma was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding up a tray. “I’ve been looking for you. Oh, and Claire, I’ve had a message from your dad. He’s on his way. He’ll be here very soon.”

  Claire looked round at Zacharie, hesitated for a split-second, but she could feel his hand in the small of her back giving her a little push. She hitched her backpack up on her shoulder, feeling the sharp edge of the casket inside it, poking through.

  “Just think what he was shouting when they took him away, Claire. That he dies if he doesn’t have the spells. Maybe it is not enough to remember them. Maybe he has to have them in his hands. No spells. He dies. If you believe him, that is.”

  Claire did. “You take them,” she’d whispered, thrusting Robert’s bag into Zacharie’s hands. “Hide them. Don’t tell me where. That way I can’t tell anyone else.”

  “Let me take the box, too. Then you will be safe.” Zacharie held out his hand coaxingly.

  Why not give it to him? He WAS the guardian, wasn’t he? And she knew HE couldn’t open it. But there were the words whispering inside her head… not yet, not yet, not yet. So, even though Zacharie clearly thought this meant she didn’t trust him, she said, “No. The box has to stay with me.”

  * * *

  Claire’s dad was looking dishevelled and unshaven and when he wrapped his arms around her to give her a hug, she could smell sleep still on him and a faint but insistent, perfume. Sharp and citrussy.

  “Ugh. You’re all scratchy,” she said pulling back. “Come on. I want to go home now.” Before her dad had a chance to say more than ‘hello’ and ‘thanks’ to Zacharie. Before he found out Zacharie was with the circus, found out how old he was and came over all heavy and moral. As if he had any right to do that. Not that it would stop him.

  “Okay. Okay. Little Miss Bossy, let’s go.” Claire’s dad looked at Zacharie and said, sounding gruff and awkward, “Thanks for saving her life. God knows…”

  Zacharie held up both his hands, palms outward, “Pah! C’est rien. It is nothing.” Smiled.

  As Claire left, she turned to look at him. He made a phone sign and mouthed, “Ring you later.”

  * * *

  By the time they left, it was rush hour. Crawling along Chelsea Bridge Road and onto Chelsea Bridge, the car was almost at a standstill. They were on their way to Grandma’s house, so Claire could wash and change. Then they were going to the hospital to see her mum and Micky. There would be plenty of time to talk later, but just now she didn’t feel like it. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her backpack and her head turned away from her dad. She was looking out of the window, trying to get a glimpse of the river between the stream of people hurrying past.

  “This Zacharie seems a bit different.” Her dad was trying to sound all jolly and upbeat. Ugh!

  “What, you mean because he’s foreign,” Claire snapped.

  “Well… no! Just that he seems,” Claire flinched, because she knew exactly what her dad was going to say, “older than your other friends.”

  “He’s not a friend. He’s just someone I know. At least he had his phone turned on. You ought to be grateful. He saved me.”

  “How do you know him then?”

  Claire ignored the question. Carried on looking out of the window.

  “Want to tell me what happened?” Her dad’s hand rested briefly on her knee.

  She shook her head. “No!”

  Silence.

  “I feel so guilty,” her dad was saying. “If I’d been around…”

  If you’d had your phone switched on ever. If you hadn’t been too busy. If you hadn’t been cheating on Mum? She knew he wanted her to say, “It’s okay, Dad. It’s not your fault.” But she didn’t feel like doing that. She let him ramble on. She registered the rise and fall of his voice. The tone breathy and sincere and a little bit earnest. As if he was an actor playing the part of a contrite father. She would still love him. He was her dad. But she would never believe in him quite as much, ever again. She didn’t ask what he had been doing all the time she’d been trying to call him. She knew, but didn’t want to have him say it. Besides, there were other bigger and more important things to worry about than the small everyday tragedy of a parent’s infidelity, and as if he had read her mind, he said, “They won’t let him out, you know. The DI said they’d got the duty psychiatrist out of bed. He’ll be sectioned. No question. He’s clearly a nutter. What on earth your mum thought she was doing…”

  She did turn her head towards him then. Dropped the bombshell. “Yeah. Well people do strange things when they’re pregnant.”

  * * *

  Claire turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. Her footsteps echoed in the hall. There was no other noise anywhere. No background buzz from a television or radio. No taps dripping. Even the clocks had run down and stopped. There was just chill, empty silence. Her dad was still outside. He’d said he wanted to get something out of the boot, but when she looked back he was still in the driver’s seat and on the phone, dropping a bombshell now himself; saying to her… the sharp-faced smiling woman… “Sorry, I am SO sorry. Jill’s pregnant…”

  Shouldering her backpack, she went upstairs. On the landing she hesitated. She didn’t want to go in to Grandma’s bedroom, but the door was ajar. She pushed it further open with her foot. She felt so incredibly tired. She wanted someone to help her and there was no one. Only Zacharie would understand and he was miles away. Then like a little miracle, her phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “C’est moi. Are you okay?”

  “Yep. I’m okay now… but so tired Zac.”

  “Sleep. Dors bien. Speak tomorrow.”

  She crawled onto the bed. She’d shower and change in a minute, but first she just wanted to rest. She pulled the covers around her and, holding the backpack tight, fell deeply asleep.

  Manuscript 10

  I bide my time. I wait patiently through all the baking heat of summer, until one Sunday at the very beginning of September, Nicholas comes to tell me that a fire has started in the city. In Pudding Lane. Since everywhere is tinder dry, the fire takes hold quickly. By Monday it blazes well. It does not threaten us at first, but Nicholas is watchful.

  As the fire spreads, people run about the streets distractedly. They cry out. Soon the rumour spreads that the fire has not come about by chance. Dutchmen have been seen throwing fireballs into houses. A Dutch baker is arrested and taken to Gatehouse Prison. Foreigners are dragged out into the street and beaten.

  That night I take Nicholas to my bed early, while it is still light. I say that I have seen the error of my ways. That the sight of people suffering from the plague has made me question God’s beneficence. The casket must be opened. The 21st spell set free.

  “Feel,” I say, placing his hand on my belly. “I carry the baby higher this time, which signifies that it is a girl.”

  In sleep, curled against me and with his head resting so he can feel the baby stir inside me, he looks untroubled and at peace. So when, later, we are woken by a knocking at the door and a messenger from the king says that he is needed urgently at the palace, he is not afraid to leave me alone. He sends the messenger back to the king, saying he will come at once. Then he
gets dressed and, taking his leather bag with him as he always does, leaves the house, saying I must not worry. He will be back as soon as he can.

  Through my bedchamber window, I watch him stride away, his bag slung across his shoulder. His cane tapping on the cobbles. Then from around the corner, a crowd appears, roistering and roiling like boiling oil. They are baying for blood, looking for someone to blame for the fire. This is my chance. I break the glass in the window with a fire iron. At the sound, the mob stops and looks up. I point a finger at the figure of Nicholas, nearly out of sight in the gathering darkness. I scream “Dutch. He is Dutch. He has fired a house nearby and heads towards St Paul’s!”

  All at once there is an angry roar and the mob breaks into a run. Now I seize my chance. Taking a fire iron and using all my strength, I go to his study and force open the door. The wood splinters around the lock and the door springs open wide. The Emerald Casket is there on the desk, still wrapped in its cloth. I tuck it safe under my arm. Then, from its hiding place behind the wainscot in my bedchamber, I take my manuscript. In it I have written down everything that has happened since I first met Nicholas at the Frost Fair. I slip off the red linen braid that secures it. I take off my silver necklace and place it on the oak table by the window. Then I thread the ring on its old red braid and tie it around my neck. I will scrawl a note, saying I have gone from him now and will place the ring and the casket where he will never find it. Which I truly mean to do.

  If by some trick of fate he escapes the mob, he will find the necklace and the note and know that I have gone from him for ever and he will never have the key and the Emerald Casket now.

  Along with the three half crowns from my mother, I will leave the house. The streets are thronged with people streaming out from the city. Carts are loaded down with their goods and chattels. All is chaos and disorder. Black smoke hangs like a pall over the city. The heat is so great in places, even the stone cracks and breaks. I pray that I will find someone passing who will be willing to take me safe out of the city. And only God knows what the future will hold, for ‘qua redit nescitis horam.’ Ye know not the hour of his coming again.

  Chapter 11

  Her mum was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking very tired. Her hair was lank and she’d pushed it roughly back behind her ears. Her eyes looked red and puffy, as if she’d been crying. Claire went straight to give her a hug and then sat on the side of the bed and held her hand. Claire and her dad had agreed that they wouldn’t tell her what had happened. Not yet. Not until she was better and out of hospital.

  Her mum gave her a half smile, said “What HAVE you got in that backpack?” but she was already looking past Claire, to where her dad stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “Claire, pop down and see Micky for a bit will you? There’s some things I need to talk to your dad about.”

  “Not now, Jill, please….”

  Claire looked from one to the other. She squeezed her mum’s hand even tighter. “It’s okay,” she said, “I know what this is about. The baby.”

  “What?” Her mum looked startled and then, silently, she started to cry.

  Her dad’s head was bent down and he was rubbing his forehead hard with his right hand. When he glanced up Claire thought she had never seen anyone look so miserable in the whole of her life.

  “You’re pregnant right?” Claire said.

  Claire’s mum started to sob now and she reached out with her free hand to Claire’s dad. Then, when he came close, she clung onto him and he held her, resting his cheek on the side of her head. Looking as if the door to the prison cell had just closed behind him and there was no hope now that he would ever be free. Then, just as it looked as if they would be locked into this terrible freezing misery for ever, a nurse appeared holding Micky by the hand.

  “There you are,” she said. “I told you your mum was okay. And your dad and sister are here too. Isn’t that nice?”

  * * *

  Micky could see something was up and she was going to nag away at them until she was told what it was. So Claire told her. “Mum’s pregnant.”

  Micky looked puzzled at first and then her face broke into a great big grin. “Brilliant. Does that mean we’re going back home to live now?” Even Mum and Dad had to smile at the sheer innocent simplicity of that. “And I hope it’s a boy this time, because I’d really like a brother. I think that would be much better than another sister.” She made a face at Claire and Claire made one back.

  “Well, at least you’ll be happy, Micky,” said Mum, sounding unnaturally bright, “They’ve done a scan and it is a boy.” Then she reached over to the bedside cabinet and picked up a print. A blurry black-and-white image. “A miracle to be able to see him.” she said. “Your grandma lost three baby boys, one after the other. They were all stillborn. Imagine the pain of that. Maybe that’s why she was always so hard and difficult…”

  Claire felt cold to the bone. She took the print out of her mum’s hand and looked down at it. If she believed what Robert had said… and she did, her brother would die and there was nothing she could do to stop it happening.

  * * *

  Claire and her dad and Micky drove back from the hospital in silence. Mum would be in hospital for a few days yet, so he was taking them back to their old house. Micky had been chattering on about the baby the whole way and didn’t seem to mind that no one else was saying anything. When they got home she ran straight upstairs and went into her old room, just as if nothing had happened. Soon Claire could hear her pulling out toy-boxes from under her bed. Toys her mum had said were baby toys and wouldn’t take to Grandma’s. Baby. Would there be a baby? Claire felt a tight pain in her chest as if her heart had shrunk very small.

  She went up to her room. She didn’t want to. It felt unsettling, stripped of nearly all her possessions. But it was better being out of her dad’s way. They had nothing to say to each other. And the rest of the house felt different. Her dad had made changes, moved things around. Then there were the small things, like a bottle of moisturiser in the bathroom; a make her mum could never afford to use. The house smelled strange too. Different perfumes and soaps and deodorants. Another brand of washing powder scenting the towels and the sheets. And her dad was different too. He tried to act normally. So, when it was time for bed, he’d read Micky a story and he’d sat on Claire’s bed and held her hand. But she could tell, in his head and heart, he was really somewhere else. And later she heard him talking for a long time on the phone. His voice a low, soft murmur. She understood what that meant now. The need to be with someone so badly. The wanting to hear their voice.

  He doesn’t really want us here, she thought. He’ll be relieved when Mum’s out of hospital and we can go back to the other house. How shocking that was, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she didn’t belong here any more.

  * * *

  She lay awake, the backpack tucked safely under the covers, between her feet. She was trying to work out where she could hide the casket. Keep it safe until…

  Then she must have fallen asleep, because at four o’clock in the morning, just as it was getting light, she woke up, crying. She’d been dreaming. She was in Robert’s house again. But it wasn’t his house. Not really. And she wasn’t Claire. She was leaning out of a window and watching someone who was Robert and yet not him, walking away from her down the street. She could hear the tap, tap, tap of his black cane on the cobbles. He stopped and turned to look up at her. Then a crowd of people erupted into the street and gave chase and he turned and was swallowed up into blackness.

  The dream clung to her and she couldn’t go back to sleep again. She got up, drew back the curtains and looked down the garden, absently twisting the silver chain she was still wearing round her fingers. She’d believed him when he said it was Margrat’s. She didn’t think he was mad. And she knew he would come to find her.

  She padded over to the bed and, sitting on the edge of it, hauled up the backpack and took out the casket. She rubbed the edge of the ring with h
er thumb, turning it round and round on her finger. How cool it felt now. How heavy. Then she pressed the ring into the cartouche again. But it stayed closed. Enigmatic. She listened… but there were no words this time, filling up her head. Maybe Zacharie was right after all. You did need the powers of the other spells, too.

  * * *

  Micky was up. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, eyes glued to the TV, shovelling cereal into her mouth. She ignored Claire.

  Her dad was in the kitchen, leaning back on the work surface, drinking coffee. “Sleep okay?” he asked.

  “Bit rubbish…” she said, starting to open cupboard doors, looking for something to eat.

  Then the phone went, three rings and her dad snatched it up. “Yes?” For a second he must have thought it was work, but then his face sort of screwed into a frown and he looked quickly across at Claire. “Oh for God’s sake,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone. “When? Now what do we do?” He put the phone down and then he came over and put his arms round Claire’s shoulders. “They let the bastard get away. Can you believe it? How the hell did he manage that? What is he, some sort of magician? I tell you, if anything happens, I’ll…”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” As if she had to ask.

  “That man. Him. They were transferring him to a ‘secure’ psychiatric unit, and God knows how, he got away. Maybe he had outside help. But it only happened a bit ago, so it’s okay. The police are going to send some men to… you know… look after us. They’ll be here any minute. Then we’ll be safe. And they say it won’t be long before they catch him, so…”

  “He knows where Grandma’s house is.” Claire was calculating… thinking things through in her head.

  “Who?”

  “Robert. He knows where Grandma’s house is. We should be there not here.”