Eleanor

by RA Williams

  She watched him pour water through the tea strainer, the fragrance of herbs filling the tiny kitchen. ‘Is that rosemary?’ she asked.

  ‘Mother’s favourite.’ He put the kettle down. ‘A house redolent with ghosts.’

  Elle took a step nearer to him. ‘I pictured you living in a manor house with a library and staff bringing tea on polished silver.’ She stopped just behind him. ‘At the very least, someone else to make the tea.’

  ‘One lump or two?’ he asked, holding a tarnished sugar bowl in his hand, his courtesy seeming purely perfunctory. Raising her chin, she rested it upon his shoulder. His neck smelled of shaving soap. Leaving her fears behind, she pushed the sugar bowl in his hand to the counter, laying her hand upon his. He looked down, his fingers hesitantly intertwining with hers.

  ‘You grasped the spike with your bare hand,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, you said.’

  ‘Jungfräu is toxic.’

  ‘Am I going to die?’ she asked, her fingers tightening on his.

  ‘Not today.’ His response was subdued. ‘Jungfräu would have killed you quick.’

  ‘Dumb luck,’ she ceded.

  ‘I’ve not witnessed it before.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  She drew close, her chest now pressing against his back.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Eleanor. Dumb luck.’

  She didn’t believe him.

  He turned from the tea on the kitchen counter, his eyes meeting hers. She had not been this close to him since Titanic. At least, not while he retained his former self.

  ‘Can you stop?’ she asked.

  ‘Can I stop?’

  His nonplussed response made him look vulnerable. She liked it.

  ‘Can you stop,’ she repeated, ‘calling me Eleanor.’

  His austere eyes warmed. If only slightly.

  ‘If that brute of a man Smyth can call me Elle, and Mssr Gaele, and Mahmoud, I’d say it’s kosher for you to do the same.’

  ‘Elle,’ he began again. ‘I have caused misery to everyone who cared about me. You ought to leave before I am the death of you.’

  ‘Not even a sockdolager like that frightens me,’ she replied, his warning having no effect upon her by now.

  He humphed.

  ‘First hornswoggle, now sockdolager.’

  She gave him her best coquettish nod.

  ‘I’m learning all sorts about you, Elle.’

  ‘Then learn this. Not even a remark like “I’ll be the death of you” is a sock in the guts. I learned a long time ago that getting out of trouble is far more interesting to me than getting into it.’ Confidence beat back prudence, her fingers tightening around his. Their faces were mere inches apart, and when she spoke, she barely had to raise her voice over a whisper.

  ‘The time to take it on the arches has come and gone. It was too late the first moment I saw you,’ she said, laying everything bare before him. ‘For me, you’re the only game in town.’

  She turned the last card down. She didn’t care. She felt powerful. Without giving him a moment to consider her words, she kissed him. Her indomitable longing burst into flames as she tasted his lips. He responded, cautiously at first, then accepting. Lips parted. His arms pulled her tight, his touch the most divine tonic. Her heart raced from an ache born not from desire, but safety. The years of insufferable loneliness dissolved. Together, they retreated into her memories.

  The night was hot. Even with the windows in the upstairs bedroom flung wide open, there was little relief from the heat. Quaint hand-stitched quilts and odd clothes were strewn across a worn wooden floor, cotton bed sheets twisted around their bodies. Deep kisses. Hands exploring.

  The cool touch of his fingers upon her warm flesh made her tingle. Naked except for her blouse, she sat astride him. Pondering the dignified line of his neck, she rested her hands on either side of his face, the deep pools of his eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. His body spoke for him. Timidity exiled, she felt him against her. Firm. It set her alight. Overtaken by a want she had cloistered since Titanic, there was nothing to disturb them now.

  Fumbling with her linen blouse, he pulled the last buttons open, revealing her tapered breasts beneath. Arching her back, she raised her chest to him. He feasted. Her hands became lost in his thick hair as his mouth grew eager and she was overcome with delectation. Grasping his back, muscles like stone, uninhibited lust took away her control. Parting her legs further, she moved upon him, a curious release begging, heart awakening.

  As he moved up to meet her, she wrapped her willowy legs about his thighs, gasping with pleasure as her most treasured space was occupied.

  Although her mind spun, she remained aware. This was deeper than coitus. This was something she’d never known. They were no longer separated. Not by distance nor time. This complex man, in this moment uncomplicated. He was within her.

  ‘Balthasar,’ she whispered, lost in the whirligig of his seizing muscle exploring her, his movement raw yet strangely regal, the sensations reverberating in her arms. Her body a knot of convulsions. She held him tightly. Never would she allow herself to be separated from him again.

  Elle lay amid the damp cotton sheets, taking him in. He was so close; his cool skin against hers took away the night’s heat, his cold touch heavenly. Pressed against him, his nakedness familiar now, she felt comfort in this blissful post-coital unity. The decades of loneliness, the feelings of longing, of not belonging to anyone, all worthwhile for this moment.

  ‘I hear your voice inside me. I see your face everywhere,’ she said softly.

  His head turned slightly, black eyes on her.

  ‘On Carpathia. On the pier in Manhattan.’ She reached out, her hand uncurling a lock of his hair. ‘I found myself always looking through crowds, hoping to pick you out. University of Michigan football games. At Tiger stadium. Speedboat races at the Detroit Yacht Club. You know, I once thought I saw you in the reflection of a store-front window in Birmingham.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Birmingham, Michigan. It’s a town near where I teach. I thought I caught your face. It was my mistake. I turned round and there was nobody.’ She sighed, holding on to him now, remembering just how many years she had looked for him. ‘And even when I forgot what you looked like, I kept looking. I knew you were out there. You left me too many clues, Balthasar. I just needed time to find them all. And I have. And here you are.’

  Drifting away beneath the moonlight flooding through the open windows, she saw his ever-present confidence and barriers of self-defence drain from his extraordinary face, a sanguine whisper on his lips.

  ‘I’m so very tired.’

  1 SEPTEMBER 1939

  FOLKESTONE, KENT

  Voices in the street awoke her.

  Sunshine drenched the bedroom through the open windows. A new day. A new month. A gentle breeze caught in the curtains, carrying with it voices from below. She rolled over. The sheets where Balthasar had lain were thrown back. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she focused on the grand yet intricate cabinet at the far end of the room.

  Pulling Balthasar’s jacket over her naked body, she padded across the wooden floor to look more closely at it. In the light of day, she recognised the cabinet’s intricate marquetry immediately. It was a Roentgen secretary. They were a delight of ingeniously placed mechanics of cables, pulleys and cogs, which, when activated, revealed all manner of curiosities. They were also priceless.

  A key stuck out from a fold-down writing desk within the cabinet. Turning it, she lowered the lid, the newly revealed cubbies inside stuffed with folded papers. A drawer in the centre contained another key. As she twisted it, internal mechanics whirred, and a music box began to play the ‘Lacrimosa’ from Mozart’s Requiem.

  She smiled, Titanic’s cargo manifest returning to her mind. Item description: 1 Large Crate. Roentgen secretary. Port of Origin: Folkestone.

  ‘Each and every clue leads back to Folkestone,’ she said, watching the tiny mec
hanical ballerina spin atop the opened music box.

  There was a commotion outside. She went to the window and looked out onto The Bayle. People carrying Union Jacks chattered excitedly. Wally the Wall’s man pedalled slowly up the street wearing a Tommy helmet, his tricycle covered with bunting. Schoolboys gave chase as he tossed them ice cream from his Warrick box. A pensioner in jacket and tie wore a dinged-up tin pot on his head. In fact, nearly everyone on the street had donned an old helmet or kitchen stewpot.

  Had she forgotten a bank holiday?

  From the direction of the pub, Mahmoud and Mssr Gaele minded their way through the crowd. Elle drew their attention with a wave. Gaele replied with a nod as they disappeared from view below the window.

  Quickly dressing in her own clothes, she met the two of them at the bottom of the stairs, immediately recognising the chalk on Mahmoud’s trousers.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Germany,’ said the Persian, closing the front door. ‘They have invaded Poland.’

  ‘Britain will be at war any day now,’ added Gaele.

  Without considering what they said, she asked, ‘Where’s Balthasar?’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For gifts I can never fully repay: Foremost, my darling wife, Daiana, for being at my side through the thick and thin. And for our little boy, Tom Chunky – he is a light that never goes out. To Mum, for teaching me to respect history, and for being an endless first-hand source of knowledge relating to wartime England. And to Dagenham Dave. Theirs really is the greatest generation.

  To Professor Dennis Largey at BYU, for teaching me humility. For Doc Sima, who in those early years recognised that a cheeky boy could be something more. To my mate Bryan, for being my mate no matter what. To Cranbrook/Kingswood for its endless inspiration. To editors Liz Fraser, Kate Nascimento and Candida Bradford, for making this thick writer an author. Thanks go to artists David Pickford, for his skill in reimagining Balthasar’s death heraldry, and the tremendously talented Uroš Pajić, for his magnificent maps.

  To the learned staff at the Royal Geographical Society, for their ceaseless patience with me while I spent too many hours at Kensington Gore, researching the obscure and forgotten. To guest services at the Clifton Hotel, for making me welcome these many years. To the Western Heights Preservation Society, particularly Phil Eyden, for their knowledge and dedication to preserving a marvellous bit of Dover history from vanishing under ivy. To the Friends of Highgate Cemetery, who preserve the Victorian Valhalla, and to the calming influence of the Parish Church of St Mary and St Eanswythe in Folkestone. To the boys at the Kent Battle of Britain Museum Trust, for the tireless preservation work, and the Battle of Britain Memorial at Capel-le-Ferne that keeps the memory of The Few alive.

  To the Baldwin Public Library in Birmingham, Michigan, the Powell Library at UCLA and Harold B. Lee Library at BYU, for being temples of curiosity and knowledge. To Mark Holden, Jeanette Evert and Marjory Atwell, special thanks for your thoughts and historical accuracy.

  BOOKS TO COME IN

  THE GIFT TRILOGY

  THE GIFT, Book 2

  Balthasar

  THE GIFT, Book 3

  Ascension

  Read an excerpt from THE GIFT, Book 2: Balthasar.

  9 SEPTEMBER 1940

  HIGHGATE CEMETERY

  Inhaling the night’s sweet air, Elle watched as Mahmoud slid the manhole cover back in place, relieved to leave the sewer’s stink behind. The rain let up, but the sky above the city glowed scarlet. Crump-crump-crumps rolled along the heath from below, invading the quiet of Swain’s Lane.

  ‘Albert. Victoria. West India.’ The Persian slowly counted off another dock with each detonation. ‘Surrey Commercial. Millwall.’

  ‘Docklands are catching a packet,’ Gaele remarked, reloading Henry. ‘Woolwich Arsenal and Beckton Gas Works are also inviting targets.’

  Balthasar gazed down the tree-lined lane, his face lit by bomb flashes.

  ‘Madness.’

  ‘Madness?’ repeated Elle, pointing to the manhole cover from where they had all just emerged. ‘What I saw down there is madness.’

  He looked at her without reply.

  ‘I need a minute to catch my breath,’ she said.

  ‘You can have your minute while we rid ourselves of our rucks.’

  Removing spikes from his rucksack, he tucked them into the pockets of his anorak, tossing the bag over the high wall abutting the lane.

  Removing her own spikes, Elle stuffed them into the back pockets of her RN utility trousers, keeping the ℜisineum at the ready in her thigh pocket.

  ‘When are you going to explain to me what that was all about down there? The Sentinel. What it said. “He will rip you to pieces”? Who is “he”?’ she asked.

  Before Balthasar could reply, slits of light appeared from around the lane’s bend. Elle looked for a place to hide, but the plastered walls bordering the lane were too high to climb. Swinging open a gate in the wall, Balthasar ushered the lot of them through. No sooner had he lowered the latch than the vehicle lurched to a halt.

  Climbing onto a water butt, the Persian peered over the high wall. ‘It’s a removals van.’

  Crouching beside Elle, Balthasar replied, ‘At this hour?’

  Doors creaked, followed by abrupt orders. Hobnailed boots clattered.

  ‘Scratch that,’ Mahmoud whispered. ‘It’s Dad’s Army.’

  ‘Home Guard,’ Elle said, turning to Balthasar. ‘Grandads with broom handles.’

  ‘This lot have rifles.’

  ‘And not one of them can shoot straight,’ Gaele reassured them.

  Bracing herself with her hands as she slid down against the wall, Elle felt a sudden twinge of pain in her right hand. Blood seeped through a split seam in her glove. Pulling it off, she found a bead of red formed on the tip of her index finger.

  ‘You’ve injured yourself,’ Balthasar whispered.

  ‘It’s a slight cut. Must have caught it on a brick shard in the collapse.’

  ‘Even a scratch can get infected with Weil’s.’

  Undoing a strap on her rucksack, she removed her orderly’s bag.

  ‘Have you sulphur powder?’ asked the Belgian.

  ‘I thought I did,’ she said, rummaging through the kit, before shaking her head. ‘I must have gone through it.’

  He unscrewed his flask and poured brandy over the cut. ‘You don’t want staph, ja?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you a meyvn?’ she replied.

  Gaele’s forehead furrowed.

  ‘Means you’re a flipping expert.’

  ‘Rat piss can infect your brain.’ He shrugged. ‘If cleaning your wound makes me an expert, fiât.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Balthasar as he wrapped a plaster about her finger. ‘We can’t have you going mad.’

  ‘Oh, so what I just saw in the sewers isn’t enough to send me into madness?’

  The van’s motor kicked over, clutch grinding before it drove off.

  ‘Have they gone?’ asked Balthasar.

  ‘The van has,’ Mahmoud replied. ‘Couple of blokes standing about scratching their bums.’

  Elle leaned back, the thorns from a wild rose bush prickling her shirt. Freeing herself, she nudged her rucksack. The wind-up toy inside began to clatter.

  ‘Fais taire ton bruit, putain,’ Gaele snapped; voice hushed but harsh, he told her to silence the noise, although not as politely.

  ‘For God’s sake, what is that?’ asked Balthasar, teeth gritting.

  Opening the bag, she grasped hold of the tin litho. Felix the Cat rocked back and forth on the tricycle’s handlebars. Quickly shoving a finger between the bobbing cat and tricycle, she silenced it.

  ‘Were they alerted?’

  Mahmoud shook his head. ‘Standing about watching the action over the city.’

  Balthasar turned to her, the moon revealing his cross face.

  ‘Half a moment,’ the Persian whispered.

  Elle waited for him to say the
guards were coming their way. Instead, he shook his head.

  ‘Nah, don’t worry, they’re tucking into sausage rolls.’

  ‘You nearly had us in a scrap with the Home Guard,’ Balthasar sighed, giving her a sour look. ‘What was that racket?’

  Opening her hand, she showed him the tin wind-up toy.

  ‘Why on earth have you brought that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she explained. ‘It was in the caldarium.’

  ‘But why on earth have you kept it?’ Gaele asked.

  ‘You don’t think it’s odd, this being in a caldarium?’

  ‘A child’s toy? You could purchase one in any cinema.’

  ‘Or funfair,’ Balthasar added.

  ‘You still don’t think it strange?’ she repeated. ‘A Sentinel with a child’s toy?’

  ‘Sometimes they keep mementos,’ Balthasar reluctantly admitted.

  ‘You really think that abomination kept a child’s toy as a memento?’

  ‘It’s possible it consumed the child it belonged to,’ Gaele suggested.

  ‘Are you lot thick?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Balthasar hushed.

  ‘A memento of what?’ she asked.

  ‘Of their former lives,’ replied the Persian, looking down from the wall at the wind-up toy in her hand. ‘Reminds them of a time before they were Crimen.’

  ‘Never been able to work out why,’ said Balthasar. Elle eyed him suspiciously. He knew full well why.

  Gazing back over the wall, Mahmoud changed the subject. ‘Good, they’re moving off now.’

  ‘Let’s wait a wee bit.’ Balthasar clicked on the Thompson’s safety. Glancing towards Elle, he added nothing more.

  Looking at the toy in her hands, Elle felt unease. The Sentinel had purposefully held on to the toy as a reminder. Somewhere within, it dearly held on to a memory of its mortal self. She had watched the beast plead with Balthasar, aware how dreadful its last moments would be. Still Balthasar killed it. Just as Elle had killed Emiliana.

  She inspected the dinged paint, hoping her shame would linger. Her own memory of being human. Then she noticed the stamped gold letters on Felix’s foot.